I used to think the above was a religious term. I don’t know if that’s the truth or not, but I know the possible antecedents of such discomfort could be many.
I’ve been led to write lately. Pushed, pulled, cajoled. I’ve rejected it, excused it, ignored it, whispered to it, considered it, distanced myself from it, got too busy for it, felt intimidated by, questioned it, “meant to start” it. And then it began popping out at the seams.
I found myself craving texting and messaging–and a well-formed professional email, talking point, or proposal (not quite crazed enough for a grant). I found myself explaining pieces of stories to handfuls of people in bursts. Daydreaming about a sometime-in-this-life sabbatical for writing [TBD]. Adding blogging to my mental weekend to-do list (and rarely getting to it). Tug, tug, tug.
Sometimes I view my life as a story. It’s an old, bad habit, but it allows for plenty of entertainment. It’s also a slow seduction that at least some of it needs to be written down, captured, stuck on a bright white page…in a cloud.
And then I need to write.
So I know the torture of feeling led. Even led toward something you love. Something that tantalizes and terrifies you. Something that your heart comes back to whenever your mind is quiet. Something that threatens you, in embrace and/or avoidance. Something a leap of faith away, a risk, a sacrifice…perhaps a loss.
I think I get why teenagers and young adults seem so flighty. They can be led. Their roots are shallow (if existent). Their hearts soar free.
You never know where a lead will go. You never know what your mind will say, or the politics at play within your soul. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Courage is about as random as that. So, you never know.
It could be the beginning of a thing…
Or, the accepting sigh of a dead end.