I was angry this week at the limitations of writing. How can I love and hate something at the same time? I love that writing allows for expression. In writing I am free to express the thoughts and feelings that so often pass without notice or comment, the things that someone needs to have the courage to put down in black and white. It’s important and valuable and an outlet for emotion. But I sometimes despise the restrictions found in the medium of writing. How in the world do you condense the biggest things into the smallest letters. And I don’t mean big things like elephants. I mean heartache. Longing. Emptiness. Joy. At such times, I want to break free from writing and dance, paint giant canvases with huge swathes of color, do anything but try to find the words that will convey the Big. I think, though, to be bound to the form is part of my salvation, when the expression unfettered would be my breaking apart. Being bound to words, being bound to the Word keeps me from flying right out into the nothing.

It makes me breathless to write, to write as much as possible, to fill in every crack and crevice of the boundaries of writing so that I can at least use all I am free to use. I know there will be exhilaration in that moment when I find the right letters, words, sentences, phrases to show people the Big as I really see it.

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