Public is difficult. People who know me from my youth find it surprising that I do not consider myself an extrovert. In a way, it surprises me too.
At some point, I found some kind of safety in hiding. It wasn't conscious.
It's easier.
A word that has come up recently and consistently is trauma. I don't know what to do with that word, honestly. And I don't really think I'm supposed to seek out something to do with it. I'll trust God to reveal what I truly need to know about it.
Speaking of words, there has always been safety in words for me. Yes, words can be damaging. I know. I know. But when I needed relief, a retreat into words always revived me—as long as I gave myself room to luxuriate.
I remember in the late 80s after two partial colleges and before marriage, I took "vacations" on the top of my bunk bed with books, notebooks, and a freshly baked loaf of bread. I think that's what I attempt to do on Sunday mornings when I can't seem to make myself get out the door.
But it's a bit different now. I sit with words, yes. The distractions are higher. The consequences are weightier. It isn't just a luxury, though it could be. It's more of a wrestling match.
Even this post, which I originally thought would bring some expression and discovery just hung there after the previous paragraph for a day. Now I'm here just to sew it up and move on. *sigh*
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