Write from the middle

I keep waiting for things to resolve into a neat transition point, where it will make sense for me to set one thing down and pick another up– all across the board of my life. I’ve been waiting for a couple of years now, through a handful of false alarms and a growing number of hints from friends wiser than I that such a moment may never come around again in my life. Sometimes the waiting is Forrest Gump at a bus stop, all quiet anticipation and happy chat. Lately it’s been more of a playground game of double dutch (which I never quite mastered): false starts, pounding heart, and an ever-growing sense of urgency.

So I’m beginning one thing, beginning to shape one thing from the formless and void space that is my life, trusting that the Spirit is hovering over the deep even when I’m blind to it. Trusting that no harm can come from hoping, from beginning, from creating. Daring to hope even that some good could grow?

There was a day a while ago where I found myself with four overripe mangos and a crowd to feed. I began chopping, sifting, simmering, seasoning– in faith that a plan would shape itself out of the ingredients and the years of familiarity in my working fingers. Someone asked what was for dessert and was bemused by my honest confession and invitation: “I don’t know, but let’s find out together.”

Where are we going with this? I don’t know, but let’s find out together.

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