If only.
Anne Lamott wrote:
The great writers keep writing about the cold dark place within, the water under a fozen lake or the seculded, camouflaged hole. The light they shine on this hole, this pit, helps us cut away or step around the brush and brambles; then we can dance around the rim of the abyss, holler into it, measure it, throw rocks in it, and still not fall in. It can no longer swallow us up. And we can get on with things.
[...]
We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the cstle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words - not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.
Blood:Water Mission put it this way:
The role of the artist is tantamount to our core purpose of building community through creative social action, because artists have a unique and vital role in addressing and humanizing the crises of our day. We have seen how artists can act as a voice for the voiceless serving as storytellers giving dignity and power to the untold stories of people and communities. Artists create movements, galvanize supporters, and grow life-long advocates.
And so, I am writing, have been writing, will go on writing. About the places that are terrifying to myself. About the places that are cold and frozen, that are stuck in the worst sense of the word.
Not because I think these words will certainly change the world. Not because I think I will obtain anything for it in the end, save for a ticket to the end of the line just like everyone else has, that I have already been handed anyway. Not because I think that I am climbing up a mountain or racing on a track or somehow getting anywhere other than where I am standing right beside everyone else. Not because I think that I will repay the debts that I have, in so few years, already accrued.
If only because I might glimpse something real and true and meaningful somewhere along my way and might say something of value. If only because I might somehow live a life that is worth the while. If only because I might uncover whatever it was that has been covered over so well. If only that someone might look in on the disaster and see something of themselves as well.
If only so that we will be able to say with clarity and conviction someday that the truth, that reality, that God is our home. And if only so that we will really feel it.
The great writers keep writing about the cold dark place within, the water under a fozen lake or the seculded, camouflaged hole. The light they shine on this hole, this pit, helps us cut away or step around the brush and brambles; then we can dance around the rim of the abyss, holler into it, measure it, throw rocks in it, and still not fall in. It can no longer swallow us up. And we can get on with things.
[...]
We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the cstle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words - not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.
Blood:Water Mission put it this way:
The role of the artist is tantamount to our core purpose of building community through creative social action, because artists have a unique and vital role in addressing and humanizing the crises of our day. We have seen how artists can act as a voice for the voiceless serving as storytellers giving dignity and power to the untold stories of people and communities. Artists create movements, galvanize supporters, and grow life-long advocates.
And so, I am writing, have been writing, will go on writing. About the places that are terrifying to myself. About the places that are cold and frozen, that are stuck in the worst sense of the word.
Not because I think these words will certainly change the world. Not because I think I will obtain anything for it in the end, save for a ticket to the end of the line just like everyone else has, that I have already been handed anyway. Not because I think that I am climbing up a mountain or racing on a track or somehow getting anywhere other than where I am standing right beside everyone else. Not because I think that I will repay the debts that I have, in so few years, already accrued.
If only because I might glimpse something real and true and meaningful somewhere along my way and might say something of value. If only because I might somehow live a life that is worth the while. If only because I might uncover whatever it was that has been covered over so well. If only that someone might look in on the disaster and see something of themselves as well.
If only so that we will be able to say with clarity and conviction someday that the truth, that reality, that God is our home. And if only so that we will really feel it.
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