I Can’t Write What I Want to Say

I have been away from my writing in recent weeks.

Initially, the pressures of dealing with a period of intensity at work and of supporting a sick relative at home restricted my availability to write.

This period of intensity, has been accompanied by an unprecedented inner crisis which has held residence pretty much within my chest cavity for several weeks.

My thoughts have been in turmoil in my head, whilst its effects have been felt on my heart, and I have realised this week, that my longings are at such a pitch that I cannot use my writing to deflect these feelings out of self and into the world, because I can’t write what I want to say.

I have been surprised by my capacity to share the inner most feelings of my heart in recent years, but at this particular moment, I sense a need within me to retain within me the yearnings for which I crave.

No wonder, then, that I am fit to burst, but the heart does not burst, it stores and treasures it’s experiences and eventually it unravels the knot, so that the mind discerns a plateau, on which it can find rest, on which it can find space, on which it can find wholeness.

I have learned that the strife and the struggles, and the sense of burden, are in fact the richest part of the journey, because my head and my heart are not competing against each other, rather they are at one and the same, wrestling with the crisis of identity; and with the crisis of integrity; and with the crisis of faith; in an utter unity  of purpose and of will.

My next blog will be: At 54

William Defoe


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