Write

Write. One of my very first ventures on this, the blog I have yet to tell well, anyone, exists questioned me. The innocent question of a little girl left me swirling for answers I could only struggle with myself and beg of God. “Miss Anika,” she had said, “what is your favorite thing to do; the thing you just want to do all of the time?” I was struck by how few options I felt like were even there for me to stop and consider – and all of them came up short. And the question only continued to feed into the battle I was already waging – the battle in which I sought to find exactly who I was...as I was in a desperate search for me.

I have not come much farther in my search. The revealings I have are small and point to things I cannot understand. Peculiarly I am being brought through yet another process – different from the last in many ways including the fact that I see the process running and working in front of me. I recognize each stage as it occurs – as if naturally stating where I now am based on what God has chosen to reveal to me. And still, as of yet, the process has not led me to the end – nor can I imagine, though I am able to recognize the process, where it may lead.

But this I do know...as I seek to understand this process, this new set of developments, all I want to do is write. All of the time...I just want to write. Even when I don’t want to write, this aching, this yearning pulls me to think, to ponder, to process...until every word meets the page. I write to feel. I write to understand. I write to connect and to feel connected. I wish I were a better writer – more eloquent, more linguistically savvy, more profound. But I can only write the way I know and the way that comes so naturally from my fingers on the keys. And perhaps my inability is alright – for perhaps any better and I would be proud or the world would take note. And perhaps the writings, though sometimes containing truth too good to keep to myself, are meant, for the time, for me alone. Write. So many times I sit down and all I want to do is write...

Still, however, I don’t think writing is my answer. I don’t think writing is what I was supposed to discover – but maybe it is supposed to be the means in which I am to go discovering. Discovering what it means to be me...to find me...to find myself caught in the epicenter.