Morning thoughts.

I’m learning to trust the ebb and flow of God’s creative process within me. Himself rested after masterful creation, and so must I, being infinitely more fragile of mind and body, and spirit.

I have not written a thing in many days. I find myself approaching the precipice of a boring, blank page: a far stretch, possibly endless, of a life without writing. For this same spot is my sure destination each time I am between spirit-fills, between rest, between touching the magic that God spins through the wind, across the universe, within our lungs. These pauses terrify me. I am filled with the fear that I am no longer to be a writer. What a boring, bland, gray world that would be! For since I have not proven myself worthy, God has taken it away from me. Perhaps, though, as I write this, God reminds me that none of us are worthy. I could never be, but His grace…oh his overwhelming grace, it is sufficient. Hmm. This morning, I choose to believe that this period of inactivity of pen to page is rather a time of rest and refill, rather than an end. Perhaps that’s what these crossroads, this precipice, has always been. Praise God.

Discipline. Discipline is my enemy for I run from it. It pursues me relentlessly with closed fist screaming, “You must have me!” And I, in my impetuous frivolity and catch-as-catch-can childishness, scream in return, “Never going to happen!” It has faithfully proven itself, though. So much so, that, of a morning when I force myself from bed early and sit at the laptop, something wonderful happens. Oddly enough, my inspiration-driven way seems to somehow work in harmony with such discipline and I struggle. Oh what a struggle! To get the two together.