Was a little bit busy yesterday, so I forgot to post here that I wrote something over at Deeper Story. It’s about art and the healing process and how, in the midst of an unspeakable time in my life, I found God in creativity.
Across her lap was my notebook, college ruled and crinkled from use. I had been writing songs in it, per her suggestion that I channel my inner angst up and out of myself and into something creative.
I sat slack on the couch, eyes sagging low from last night’s insomnia and waited for her to finish. She turned the pages slowly as if they were aged documents. A couple times she scratched her cheek. Looked up with a smile. Looked back down.
“You are, you say, “a thousand puzzle pieces with no one to put you back together”?” She asked, repeating a chorus line. I nodded. I explained, “Yes, yes, I am because I’m all broken up inside and no one knows how to fix me. I can’t figure out how to fix me. If you look at another poem, I note that God could fix me, but he doesn’t.” She flipped a couple pages ahead. “Ah.” She said. “He is watching you fall with, you say, ‘pitiless eyes’?”
After a couple weeks of me writing and her reading, we concluded that while writing was a tremendous tool for sorting out our stuff, gaining perspective and clearing a path toward healing, it wasn’t what I needed. It was actually awful for me.