That Rhythm Uncommon

I'm what you would say in a constant cycle of "trying to figure myself out".  When I am in that moment a lot of things begin to matter.  Like, the amount of space I type in becomes suddenly overwhelming and the words shy away from my grasp.  I'd like to write about the chirping birds that make me smile in the morning but that suddenly feels like too small of a story or too uncommon a rhyme.  

I am also not always aware of what I want to write about.  Most often I just want to describe things like how people become angry or sad or happy.  I like describing how dawn appears through my window over and over again.  I like using the word rain a lot because using it in a sentence makes me say it out loud and the sound of it feels like rain itself.  I like thinking about things over and over and turning them around in my mind to see if I can catch a glimpse of something else.  

I like making discoveries.  Sometimes I delve into one thing for very long like Audrey Assad's music or Heather King's writing or Etty Hillesum's diaries.  Then I stop because I become distracted with the world I live in and I am too busy to "figure it out" and end up just moving along with the day.  The words get tired and I can't write about anything else.  

It's hard for me to understand things about my life unless I am able to write about them.  It's funny because I always say that I understand things fairly easily but I am not quite content with how I understand things if I just experience them without writing about them.  

So I'm here, not so much to say that I'm completely back on track in this life but I've been trying to manage this pursuit in small chunks.  I've realized that despite my need to write for an audience, I also need to feel like I'm writing for myself.  I find myself justifying this to myself over and over for some reason.  Perhaps it's because of this delayed acceptance or repressed desire to just write.  I give myself excuses like, "I'm too busy to write." or "There's nothing to write about." or "I don't have anything interesting to say." But the urge to just choose a word and pick it apart to convey a meaning or a message I know I have it in me to express continues on like an impulse that never ends. 

Why I never follow this impulse on the days I need it most is beyond me.  But like I said, I'm writing this morning to sort of unload a huge amount of cluttered thought that's been tucked away.  Parked.  Set aside. For a long while.  And I'm hoping that I don't have to keep setting aside these things for too long. Like the article I just read on Haruki Murakami, "he can write while watching baseball games".

I carry on these days writing small notes to myself.  Not lengthy ones like these.  These are quite overwhelming to keep up with.  If I can write on an interrupted stream of consciousness like I am now, I'll feel like I'm on a vacation every moment.  Unfortunately I don't for the rhythm I ride these days is uncommon to me.  But I live with it anyway.

If you want to see how I'm keeping up with it, read the through my notes at


  1. This is lovely. Good for you. Two interesting connections with your news:

    1. A friend today wrote about their intent to write but they did not actually write. They've done this before. On the other hand, you *are* doing it.

    2. I posted a quote by an author about writing. I think you'll appreciate the connection :)

    I have subscribed to your Tumblr and plan on enjoying it.


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