Oh, sigh. Le blog.
Sometimes (a lot of times), I come to this space and watch the curser blink – blink – blink, just not knowing what to say. These posts provide such a tiny glimpse into my reality, it’s hard to attempt to paint an accurate picture of what’s going on. What you see here is a small window – what I don’t communicate far outweighs what I do.
I’m in a strange season right now. One might argue that I’ve been in a “strange season” for almost 2 years – or almost 30. I’ve been waiting for a change in the tides, a shift in the forecast – but it’s nowhere to be seen. And so I walk and wait, and listen and ask, and hope to God that I feel some wind on my face soon.
But last Friday, I cried for the first time in a long time. I was there on Greta’s couch, telling her honest words that have been stuffed down inside, finally feeling it so necessary, so vital, to just lay my fears bare. She listened (something she is so good at), and asked questions (another skill of hers). And then, she compared my life to a big room, and said that it seems I’ve relegated myself to a very, very small corner – that, having ruled out all other areas as “unsafe,” I’ve retreated to the perimeter.
And it’s true. My back is to the wall – but at least it can’t get stabbed, right?
I’ve recently found myself stiff-arming friends and community in the name of self-protection. I didn’t used to be this way – I’ve always been ultra-connected and involved with the people around me – but lately, it just hasn’t felt all that safe to let the walls down.
So I’m safe. But I’m lonely.
In some ways, my life here in Denver looks very, very different than what I had hoped for. But I don’t know that that’s anybody’s fault but mine.