Our house is so quiet, and I ashamedly find myself seeking out the internet, or browsing our movie collection to break this quiet into something brainless and meaningless -- as I do far, far too often.
But reader, I am a coward. My Bible sits nearby, my journal I haven't written in in months equally close ... my books of poetry, my own notebook of attempts at poetry, all these things I claim to care for and long for -- I am running from them.
I'm afraid of the darkness of my heart. I'm afraid of the fear, the uncertainty, the brokenness I've squashed down and ignored. I'm so afraid of my own inadequacies, afraid that I will cry out like Hopkins: birds build -- but not I build; no, but strain, / Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. / Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
And here I am, writing about my cowardice instead of braving the darkness my soul is aching to have flooded with light.
Here I go.