the heron :: sarah bessey

I have been feeling creatively empty. It’s a combination of a few things that are real: the baby won’t sleep, I have four children and there aren’t enough hours in the day for everything to get done, I have obligations and duties and work and requirements demanding all of my attention and my time just like everyone else – trust me, I’m no special snowflake.

But it’s also the unreal, the unseen, the you-feel-it-but-can’t-say-it of times of creative quiet: I’m empty and I’m tired, I have nothing from which to pull the water out of the well, there isn’t a bucket or a scooper and even if I could find one, I suspicion that there isn’t much in the bottom of this old well right now. I hope it’s not death, I hope it’s gestation of winter sleep but whatever it is, I’m feeling the failure of it, the loneliness of it. I’m unable to write and this inability is both an indictment and a fear.

What if I never write again? What if this is it and my time of creativity is gone? What if I’ve lost my voice and my passion? What if I am being submerged and sucked under by a tidal wave of obligation and regular life? diapers and meals, breastfeeding and navigating preteen dramas, spreadsheets and budgets, phone calls and toilet scrubbing, and good gracious how are these laundry bins full again? how is that conducive with a life of the spirit and a baptized imagination and a hankering for goodness and the mind embodied in ways of, well, even art?

I have had to find a way to create, to be my whole self, in this space and in this time with the life I’ve chosen. Because I chose this. And I would choose it again. This is the life I love and I have to believe that there is enough abundance, enough room, for even this Canadian chubby mum of many to show up and try to articulate a bit of truth, that somehow my voice would matter not in spite of this season of my life but maybe even because of it.

So I tried to write an essay one morning, an essay about prayer. I love to pray, or at least, I think it’s prayer: it’s more like holding space for God in my mind and in my heart, an invitation and a clearing away, a shifting over in the booth and the “hello, this spot is for you, go ahead and sit down if you like” in my soul and always somehow the spot is taken and filled and we eat and we are together even without words often.

But the essay wouldn’t come and I started to think black thoughts about white male theologians with wives and housekeepers and grown-up children who only visit once a while and while I’m at it, I should probably start writing letters again and delete Facebook from my phone and what am I even doing with my life, trying to write about prayer from this place when I’m pretty sure there’s little kid pee on the toilet seat that still needs to be cleaned up?

But I kept trying and it kept being awful. Now that I’ve published two books and countless articles, I have some legitimacy to my scribbling hobby. People call me a writer and the big miracle is that the word doesn’t make me feel like an imposter anymore, I even say it out loud when people ask me what I do (“I’m a …writer….”) but it’s a hard kind of life to nail down. I think that’s what frustrated me: I made the time and the space and then it didn’t happen. I booked a babysitter to come here to my house for two days a week, six hours each of those days. She looks after my two littlest ones while the two big kids are at school and I’m supposed to “create” during that time.

I hear from big and good writers that they require regularity and discipline to write: I am the same way. I know when I write the best stuff (early in the morning) and I know what helps me to write my best stuff (time outside in the wilderness, a clean house, a plan for supper, quiet, solitude) and yet I am rarely in that sweet spot. When I do try to create the sweet spot, I sit here at the page and I think in great blank spaces of nothing happening.

I try to coin words that don’t exist and craft sentences to explain how it feels when I look at the curve of my daughter’s cheek while she nurses at my breast or how I learned to pray by doing laundry or how dignity is overrated and how the Holy Spirit feels like a bracing cold wind to me and how you only really learn that when you have nothing left or how I believe in a God who climbs down into the obscurity and calls us beloved but I keep coming up with nothing much. Or how it’s when you’re down to the essence of yourself that you realize even cynicism is for the well-rested and undesperate, and how God deals so gently with us, more gently than we can suspicion, and I feel like I could lay down on the floor and just rest in the love I feel so strongly while I’m here in this daily luminous life, and then I think I should just quit and tell everybody to go read Brennan Manning or Madeleine L’Engle because this is absolutely ridiculous.

So I went for a walk. The babysitter was here anyway, what the hell? I drove to one of my favourite walking paths, striding along the lake. It’s been cold but not too cold so there is a skin of ice on the surface, even a duck wouldn’t dare to test it. I stuffed my rough bare hands into my coat and tucked the grey hair at my temples behind my ears. I haven’t gotten my hair coloured lately and it shows, I haven’t slept and it shows, I’m tired and so I’m here to walk and hopefully find something akin to a deep breath. I won’t find it sitting in my basement staring at the computer screen, I know that by now.

I walked and here, look, God is still here because there are people and there is beauty if you know where to look. One of the reasons why I love this walking path is that it’s always boasted a fine collection of senior citizens. I have my favourite paths for solitude and wilderness out in the mountains nearby but sometimes a little city walking park is just the right thing. Plus I’ve gotten more wary in my old age, I prefer witnesses.

The sun was low in the sky already and the trees are asleep with winter cold. I breathed in and out, counting my breaths. I shifted over in the booth of my heart and thought, okay, here’s your spot, Jesus, wanna walk with me? There was only silence and loneliness there. So I stood at the edge of the little lake and watched the geese fly in, the clouds resting like a gauze scarf on the mountains rising darkly in the deep light.

I turned towards the reeds and there, standing still and staring right at me was a heron, a big blue heron. Slender and regal, its long legs were in the water among the reeds. I’ve always loved great blue herons, their blue grey wings are like twilight, their elegance among domesticity, their perseverance and cleverness. I remember hearing once long ago that herons were considered good luck: when the aboriginals would head out on a fishing expedition, the sighting of a heron meant they were headed into success because they embodied patience and wisdom.

I stood silently watching the great blue grey bird caught between mud and cold water and a darkening sky. They’re a regular sort of bird, ordinary and yet beautiful.

Just then an eagle caught my eye far above: there is a nest way up high above the pines at the other end of the lake and sometimes we can see it soaring. Eagles are pretty amazing to see in real life: they are stern and beautiful and awesome. Their white helmets, their golden beaks, their black feathers are striking. Their wing strength is economic and around me I can hear other people gasping as it dips lower to us. I watched the eagle glide higher and then disappear into a horizon I can’t imagine, living far above the rest of us. My gaze returned to the great blue heron still standing patiently in the reeds and I said, all right then.

I went back to my home, the babysitter went home, I loaded up my small ones to go pick up the big ones at school, we came home and I presided over recorder practice and we made tacos for supper, we read books and we watched Jeopardy! together. I nursed the baby in the old rocking chair, knowing full well I would be back there again in about three hours, I bathed small bodies and clipped fingernails, I checked reading folders and signed permission slips and packed lunches. My husband of fifteen years caught my eye from the corner of the couch and winked at me and I grinned. I poured a glass of ordinary red wine and I sat down at the computer again to try to find a few words to say how I find God in this daily place and in this work, how I only learned to pray when I began to pray with my hands and my attention on purpose and how most of prayer to me now is listening and abiding, how I believe it would be nice to have a lovely housekeeper and a clean house and to create amazing soaring art with all of the white space of an uncluttered life and glorious heights of transcendent spirituality, I guess, but I need the God who sits in the mud and in the cold wind, in the laundry pile and in the city park, who embodies grief and joy, wisdom and patience, loneliness as companionship, renewal with simplicity and a good deep breath, and who even now shows up in the unlikeliest and homeliest of lives too, as a sacrament of and blessing for the ordinary things.

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  • This has been my exact Sunday – well, minus the two books already published and the, uh, most of it. But the feeling matches so well how I’ve felt even the last few weeks – I feel like I am always running to keep up so hard with my everyday life that it’s impossible to have time for the imaginative life that I depend so heavily on. By the time I’ve gotten home from work, made dinner, eaten dinner, cleaned up, tried to do a little housework, and we’ve gotten the toddler to bed, it’s 8:30 and I’m so exhausted I could sleep with my eyes open – there isn’t anything left to write.

    I write best first thing in the morning, too – sometimes now I go into work an hour early and tell myself that hour is for writing, just me and a latte in an otherwise empty office. It’s the only way the blogs get written, any more. And yet there isn’t a part of me that would give up spending an hour giggling with a one-year-old, not a single part.

    Love this post. Love, love, love.

  • Okay, a) this is beautiful, and b) I weirdly wrote almost the same blog post / had almost the same experience last October, heron included. Also, c) I saw a great horned owl today which felt magical.

    • Beautiful, Jessica! I miss our old owls from our last home, they are magical indeed.

  • Molly

    I won’t speak for the rest of it, but deleting Facebook from my phone was a good call. Truthfully, though, I so appreciate your openness throughout this season-especially bearing witness to the journey which was this winter: a book release, travel, holidays… I can only imagine that what’s left on the other side can feel a bit less sparkly. I do know that God is still in his study, like a wiser Mr. Bennett, always willing to chat. Love you to pieces, Sarah.

  • This spoke to my gut Sarah. I wanted to cry and double over and just breathe in the beauty and truth of it. Also my new favourite definition of prayer is “holding space in my mind.” These gut wrenchingly honest, achingly beautiful posts of yours are still my favourite.

  • Rachel V

    Just today I looked up quotes for my 2016 word “nurture” (so I could use one in my planner weekly spread and keep it at the forefront of my mind) – this one by Jarod Kintz fits well with the exhausting season of raising tinies: “My hands will get dirty holding your rose-shaped heart, because love is like gardening — it’s earthy and takes work to keep it alive”. Not sure it’s a perfect metaphor, but it spoke to me today, as did this blog post. Also: we shall see how long I keep up with the weekly planner spread. 🙂

    • Beautiful, Rachel – what a lovely quote. Thanks for sharing it!

  • Katie

    oh Sarah, this is beautiful. Feels like we haven’t heard from you in awhile, and it’s so nice to have you back. I connect with this on so many levels. Way to push through!

    • Thanks, Katie, for noticing. I appreciate it. 🙂

  • Oh how this is just beautiful. Your words, your heart. I feel as you do o many levels…things I see others doing, things I want to do and yet the time to feel and be creative doesn’t always flow. I’m a writer but not a writer since I just am starting to play with words on my own blog. But in learning too about finding God in the small and ordinary times and places.

  • becca1612

    beautiful, as usual. In spite, or perhaps because, of the tired and busy.

  • Michelle Gunnin

    A silent season of brooding…incubating ideas…warming, covering, hovering, waiting. He withholds until the fullness of time…then the words spill over and out and onto the page like a waterfall after the rain. The life that has been silently waiting for its entrance comes forth. You are in good company. He broods over the deep too, right before the light shatters the darkness. 🙂 “Darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was brooding over the waters. Then God said, Let there be light.”

  • Give yourself a break! Listen to your body and soul and REST. I believe you wrote a post or two about Sabbath in the past?;-) Take your own advice. You won’t stop being a writer!

  • msbernice7

    Maybe your next book is a compilation of the blogposts you write about finding God in the ordinariness of life. About how to find him in the busyness of parenthood. Maybe we all need to hear how you cope and how you miss it sometimes. It would provide such encouragement for the rest of us

  • This resonates so much Sarah…I have had those seasons of the dry well, with no bucket. We all do. And we all find our own way out of those seasons. We all need seasons to let the well fill up again. And that’s totally fine. If we can’t lay down what we’re called to do, it’s become too important. So feel free to rest for a season.

    And for the record, this post proves your writing is still so beautifully poetic & wise. The gift is still there. Thanks for sharing this Sarah.

  • “What if I never write again? What if this is it and my time of creativity is gone? What if I’ve lost my voice and my passion?” Oh, I so get this. It has been large chunks of the last four years, for me. I love your words about finding prayer in the laundry and with your hands. I hope the next few days hold un-hoped for amounts of sleep, and plenty of herons, not to mention an eagle here or there.

  • Lina

    I have been really moved by Elizabeth Gilbert lately and her idea of just showing up.

    • Thanks for sharing this, Lina – Love her stuff.

  • CathyLynchLawdanski

    “How God deals so gently with us.” Thank you for that.

  • Martha

    Yes yes yes. From another momma in the trenches who has words often buried so deep under all the tired and busy, thank you.

  • Absolutely gorgeous, Sarah.

  • Jodi Glass

    Ah I love this so much! I can’t believe how you write everything I try to say!! Thank you

  • Brenda T.

    So. Incredibly. Beautiful.

  • Alison Bradley

    Sarah, thank you. Thank you for this messy, mundane view of what creating and writing and living and motherhood look like. Your words were a gift to this discouraged heart today. I needed the reminder that the Lord is in the mundane. He uses me not because I have it all together, but rather, because I don’t. This writer mama is grateful for your words from my little corner. Thanks for showing up.

  • Nisha Varghese

    After reading this i have to say you have nothing to worry about you still got it 🙂

  • Thank you. I’ve been battling the feeling that my (creative) life has just been stumbling from one failure to the next. I think that I may have confused failure with the simple, mundane parts of it all. Thank you for the reminder that so much of the loveliness of this life and the creative work is in the everyday moments.

  • Libby Parker

    When you give words to your own emptiness, you give us permission to admit that we are empty, too. And when we acknowledge it, we can recognize that we need a fill-up. And maybe we’ll get it or maybe we won’t but we can at least see it. So thank you.

  • Rebecca Camille

    I really like this. You have a beautiful style of writing Sarah 🙂 Don’t feel like you have to write to count though, you count anyway! More than you can ever see 🙂

  • J.Michelsen

    Writer: its not what you do. Its who you are.

    Thanks for sharing. I live there, too!

  • Jo Inglis

    Been holding you today introvert mama x

  • I love you so much. That is all.

  • Solomon

    Sarrah, yaaa sometimes I and I think everybody feels like this. cos. it is a part and parcel of the play of life. I was amazed the way how you revealed it, though I feel it many times….keep on we need someone who writes really who can write…..the truth out of the deepest in sensations.



  • Elizabeth Trotter

    It will come back! (In fact I think it already did 🙂 ) It’s normal to feel tapped out sometimes. I am nowhere near having even one book published, let alone two, but I do consider myself a writer at heart, and after seasons of heavy writing, or of a busy schedule, or of not getting enough time alone with God, I feel there’s nothing left and I’ll never write again. (By now I know not to freak out about this.) (And in fact am in one of those seasons right now, drawing deeply of water from the Word so I can replenish my dry, cracked soul, and not producing anything at all.)

    Over New Year’s I heard Misty Edwards speak on prophecy and creativity (she runs in charismatic circles, maybe you’ve heard of her?). It was so encouraging! She said that if you’re an artist, if that’s who God made you to be, you’ll always be creating things, whether people see them or not. (Which is good, because some of my words are just for me and God.) It was really affirming for me, sitting in the audience. I also usually think of her as someone really mystical, but she’s actually a whole lot more practical and down-to-earth than I would have imagined from her ethereal, heavenly-sounding music.

    Anyway, all that to say I relate! And I’m sure your well is not dry for good.

  • I love your post, Sarah. I remember once watching a heron standing at the bottom of a waterfall, the current crashing and pushing all around it, and it stood firm and steady. I think this symbolizes God’s presence but also the reminder that it is OK to be a heron, a stabilizer for our families and those who need us – we don’t always have to be eagles, soaring and spectacular. (Which is VERY good news for me.)

  • Elizabeth F

    This resonates with me too, as a poet/editor and mother of two young girls. Those times of feeling empty are so scary and feel so permanent. I’ve been reading a biography of Robert Frost, and came across this quote of his: A poet needed “time when nothing was happening, or seemed to be happening.” That is so true for me!

    Btw- I’ve also been noticing how Frost was a white male with a wife to manage the kids/household (!), though I too am thankful for the life I have chosen.

  • Pretty sure you haven’t lost it if you just wrote this beautiful article. I am desperately envious of you because I can’t write A THING. Not even an article about not being able to write.

  • Brooke Neville

    Scoot over in the booth of your heart for Jesus…. that MUST be “post-it-noted” all over my life! I am in the stage of school aged kids and wondering sometimes if I will ever be motivated enough to go for a walk. Some days it’s just hard to get up. They used to give me purpose. But now that I have a living room of furniture in my heart for Jesus I need to invite him in to stay…maybe during the entire school day. Thank you Sarah for answering Gods unique and oh so important call on your life!

  • Sarah I almost wrote you about prayer and emptiness on Twitter the other day, but couldn’t figure out how to put it into a simple enough question to tweet. Your book Out of Sorts touched me deeply as I feel so deeply stuck in the middle phase between the doubt and cynicism of the season I entered years ago when I allowed myself to admit my faith was falling apart and to ask questions I’d been to scared to ask and the phase of trying to rekindle a more honest faith a second time with no clue as to how to do it. Your phrase in this post about even cynicism being for the rested and undesperate caught me and haunts me with its truth. Doubt was once a refreshing relief to admit to, but slowly in its place I fear cynicism has grabbed hold and the fear of never finding my way forward again keeps me feeling stuck and hopelessly empty. I once knew what it was to be caught up in a sensational, emotional, euphoric faith that had its truly deep and genuine moments, but I’ve crashed hard enough that anything real now I struggle with always comparing and believing it will somehow always fall short. I don’t know if that makes any sense.

    All I can say is that I’ve found this to be especially true in the practice of prayer. It terrifies me because I was once very comfortable and fluent and an avid believer in the power and importance of prayer. Now I feel like a stuttering toddler unable to do more than admit my doubts, my cynicism, and my fears over and over and over. My struggle has only become even more real in the past few months as I found out I am now expecting our first child. Recently my father asked me if I had been praying for the baby, and if so what I had been praying… Being a strong believer in prayer himself. I’m sad to admit I panicked and grasped for a quick and easy answer of praying for a healthy baby and did my best to avoid any more conversation on it. Admitting to my father that I feel like I don’t know how to pray anymore, the man who taught me my faith and how to pray feels like an utter betrayal of everything I once was. And yet, the very nature of prayer now has me so genuinely torn and confused. Somewhere along the way despite knowing that God doesn’t always answer prayer the way we expect, I gradually began to believe that my every word was heard and effectual. That my prayers mattered for me and for anyone else. That they influenced outcomes. I had family members who got well when nothing else but prayer supposedly would work. I took that as further confirmation. Suddenly and slowly without realizing it I think my prayer got arrogant and formulaic. So when I encountered other people whom I loved and prayed just as hard have terrible things happen, people died, or prayers went unanswered I started to falter. I didn’t know how to handle why prayer worked for me and my family but not for my friend’s mom who died of cancer, or my other friends who tragically lost their two year old baby girl, or my other friends who had miscarriages or stillborn births, and the list only grew. Suddenly I became afraid of my own ability to pray because I knew it had the power to give me great expectations and great hope, but suddenly I didn’t know how to handle having those and yet life still occurring as randomly and painfully and broken as it often does.

    I still don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to pray for outcomes beyond my control anymore. I still struggle to pray as I believe it can be and is important to hold space as you say, for listening, for meditation, for encouraging deeper and necessary change in me that I need and want to work on…. But beyond that when it comes to praying for others, for their health, for the outcomes of the future, even for my child, I’m truly at a loss for words. As strange as it may sound I’m almost afraid of it like it is somehow selfish of me to pray for outcomes beyond my control. It is beyond me to find the words to describe how broken this makes me feel, because I feel like it already strikes at the chore of who I am/was and at what kind of mother I already am/and will be.

    I know this is probably a lot to share on a blog comment thread, but I don’t even know how to explain this to anyone else around me besides my husband who listens with great love and support, but doesn’t know how to make me feel any better nor does he have many answers.

    How have you learned to take those ordinary moments of life and turn them into an ongoing conversation of prayer, without allowing your prayer to become some formulaic control mechanism for handling life’s uncertainties? Who inspires you or teaches you about prayer after even having had your own questions and doubt? I don’t want to run anymore from this desperate darkness in my life as I’ve learned that only by walking into it do I begin to find some light, but I have no idea on where to walk forward. I would love to hear any thoughts or encouragement you have to offer.

    Kallie C

    • Heather

      My goodness, Kallie, you sound exactly like me right now. I feel for you and relate to all you said. I too am going through a very cynical, dry, ‘depressed’ funk. I have been struggling for years through it as things have been falling down around me in so many ways and as I have struggled with old wounds. It has made me wrestle with the very deepest parts of my faith. And I wish I had some easy advice to give, but all I can really say is it is a journey, a process. But I do not think God minds us wrestling with Him and with our faith. It is part of growth. A painful part and maybe a slow part, but an important part. If it helps, feel free to look up these posts at my blog, – ‘Why I could never be an atheist’, ‘Is depression a sin’ and ‘An August 2015 Update: wrestling with God.’ At least you will know you are not alone in what you are going through. God bless you. And God bless Sarah for her beautifully honest post.

  • fiona lynne

    I’m learning – slowly – that most of life comes in cycles. It’s a little truth I try to hold on to in these seasons of “I only have 90 minutes while she naps and there’s so much pressure to use it well that I’ll probably just be on pinterest…” Soon the seasons will shift again, the moon will wax and wane, and I’ll have more time, or more energy, or something. And you’ll find the right words at the right moment. xx

  • Saskia Wishart

    This is beautiful.

  • Trish Finley

    Thanks for sharing this. My creative well has gone a bit dry lately too. Isn’t it funny how we know nature doesn’t produce all the time, and neither should we, but still our minds still skip straight to the dramatics of how maybe we’ll never write anything worthwhile ever again?

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  • Meredith Cooper Adkisson

    I woke up early while my 3 adorable but clingy babies are still sleeping to finish reading your chapter, Obey the Sadness. My heart is finding inspiration and encouragement in your words. I’m a highly sensitive person and feel all kinds of heaviness and overwhelming sadness. from the pain in this world. This is the first time I’ve seen that as a gift, to be a burden-bearer, to sit and lament and then to embody those prayers.
    I’m so grateful for your writings. As a recovering fundamentalist, your words bring healing and life to me (and my husband, who I’m always saying, Hey, listen to this!) I will forever be a Sarah Bessey fan 😉 Thank you for writing and sharing it with the rest of us. And for helping me remember that Jesus is in the piles of laundry and everything ordinary. Prayers and love to you and your beautiful family!

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  • Kathy @

    I can relate to this so much. After much hesitation and fear, I finally dared to follow the dream and desire of my heart to write a book. I was finally going to do it! But still, life happens with two kids 2 and under, and there my computer sits unused. I just have to remind myself of the verse “The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me.” It will happen in his perfect timing.

  • Sandy Jones Fox

    You still have a voice, Sarah…and it’s beautiful.

  • Ken Nichols

    One of your best posts, Sarah. We so often are looking for a God that lifts us to some transcendent place, so we can finally do our “best work”. But our best work is “in the trenches”, and that’s where God wants to meet us, to serve us and to comfort us. That’s where He “incarnates” within us every day. I love the way you described prayer. That’s how I see it too. I just give Him a “space” to enter my day. Sometimes he’s quite vocal. Other days, not so much. That may have more to do with my awareness than His communication, but He’s infinitely patient with us, no matter how often we don’t hear Him clearly. God bless all your “regular days”.

  • disqus_Z2eYIeAyfg

    Hello Sarah, well written and beautiful, I was a bit taken aback by your “prayer” or what you think is prayer, making space for God. I don’t recall anywhere in the Bible that speaks of this sort of prayer. Does God not want us to pour out our hearts to him, our concerns, our requests, our fears? Ask and you will receive, ask and he will speak to us through His Holy Spirit. We are not asked to empty our minds of thought, and listen for him. I was just confused by this and wanted to comment. God Bless.

  • Liz VandeMoortel

    Thank you thank you thank you.

  • Nicole

    For someone who didn’t have words to say it, you said it all. Very well. This post was my favorite. My heart is stirred. I am encouraged, so encouraged. Thank you for sharing your heart through writing. God in the everyday, that’s where we find him.

  • Est

    Just found this, don’t know how I missed it. But oh how I know that feeling of just nothingness and emptiness. Going and being somewhere else is just so important even if it’s only for a short time. In my new job I am required to have a retreat once a month on a Tuesday morning, I just dreaded it the first time – I am not a retreat kind of person – but it was brilliant. I sat in a coffee shop for two hours reading and thinking and watching the world go by and maybe listening to other people’s conversations. We all need a bit of space where nothing is required of us other than to just replenish our souls.

  • Nancy Roe

    I am loving this so much, with tears streaming!! I feel so at home in your words. The hard, the empty, the depleted, all so much where we live. Sometimes I need to step away from the dazzling and shining. It hurts, because I have ALL kinds of pain and suffering. I think we share comfort and hope in the arid and painful. I know others who suffer, and I want them to be able to know they are not alone and I get them and want to bring them hope. That my hardship and pain has purpose. The, You too? Me too! Hugs!

  • Kristen B

    Sometimes you need to read things twice. I read your post yesterday in
    my email and when I got the the part about “What if I never write again?
    What if this is it and my time of creativity is gone? What if I’ve lost
    my voice and my passion?” I smiled indulgently to myself and said
    mentally, “yeah, you’re just having a rough patch, it’ll be there, it’s a
    part of you.”
    I was reminded of the post again today, noticing
    where I’d forwarded it to a friend. Today has been a rough, empty,
    difficult day for me. I read it again, and heard my own thoughts from
    the day before echo in my mind. Thanks for being the catalyst to remind
    me that God is here in the mess and that things do get better, even when
    there are dry times.

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  • You’ve beautifully captured the mundane days that so many of us mommas experience, and the pain that one feels as an inherent creative without creative space on those days…I laughed at your most recent post as well…the one where you talk about the “black thoughts towards men with wives”!! OMG. I have SOOO been there too often ): Despite feeling like you might never “create” again, you’ve created a beautiful post here…thank you.

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