on finding words

Well, here we are again. This writing life is a funny thing, I'm learning.

I never used to question that words would come. They always did. But in recent years, I've realized that it isn't a given. Sometimes the words evaporate. Sometimes they need to be latent. Sometimes they just don't show up. Sometimes they need to be private.

Last summer I attended a writing workshop at the Collegeville Institute. It was a week-long gift of diving deeply into words—mine and those of others. My piece was criticized and praised. I was given advice and compliments. The calling to write was affirmed.

And then the words disappeared. I didn't want to write. I realized that over the past few years, I've developed an internal critic who has some rather harsh and unhelpful things to say about my writing. Criticism is one thing if it moves you to see things from another perspective, if it sheds light on a blind spot. But this writing critic is different. It is unkind and counterproductive. It paralyzed me.

I have not suffered much from low self-esteem. I recognize that there are things I do well and things I don't do well. This is not something I beat myself up over. So to know that I am a halfway decent writer but to have this little voice telling me that my words are insignificant—well, it has taken some time to work around that.

In October I started getting up early several times a week to write. I needed the clarity of writing for no one but myself. I needed, though I didn't realize it at the time, to work around that critic, to put it in its place. I needed to see if I could put words to paper again in a way that was intentional and illuminating. I needed to remember my voice.

For several weeks I have pondered ways to go public again. There are two series I am going to work on in this space; both have been percolating for at least a year, and it's time to see what may come of them.

The first idea is something I intended to do when I started this blog: to reflect on each verse of chapter 4 of St. Benedict's Rule. This chapter is a touchstone for me; it is most definitely a guide for how to live well, how to be in relationship with others well.

The second idea is a bit less directed in some ways. When I was planning to join the monastery a few years ago, one of the most difficult concepts I wrestled with was the idea of giving up my things: my books, my bed, my cat (not a thing, but still). Selfish, perhaps. But I realized that the things with which I have surrounded myself are not merely things. I do have some clutter, some stuff that could probably go, but for the most part, the things in my home tell a story. They are important to me because of the people and events they symbolize. Letting go of the things wouldn't mean I didn't love the people or events, but it would have meant letting go of the tangibility of my story.

So this second series will be on what I have gathered: the stories that are contained in the items around me.

For the first time in my writing life I feel a bit of trepidation about putting words "out there." That trepidation alone tells me that this is a necessary thing to do. It wouldn't be worthwhile, perhaps, if I weren't just a little afraid.

Let's see what happens.