You Are Winter

It's cold and icy and I want to lay and dream and drift in and out of the forgiveness that is sleep. With the hustle of Christmas mercifully over and the excitement of inauguration day winding down, I find myself quieting. It's nice. It happens every year. Just a couple of quiet days to balance out the hilarious mayhem that is days 1 through 363.



I've been toying with the idea of picking up writing again (also an annual occurrence). I can't help but feel under qualified - what makes my thoughts so important/interesting that I could expect someone to read them and label me a "writer"? I'm fairly typical and so is my life. The writers that I fall in love with carry an air of intelligence and humour in every word they commit to paper - I would never put myself in such a lofty category. What is it that qualifies one to do what they love? Is it the mere fact that they love it? Or is there something else - something bigger and more important that turns a blog and a diary into a novel or a sermon into a soul-stirring devotional?

I don't think I'll be able to commit to writing again until I understand what it is to truly love something while devoid of the confidence needed to pursue it. I feel like I owe writing more than my "best shot". I feel like writing deserves my heart on paper - how do I do that when I can't even wear my heart on my sleeve? Maybe that's it. Maybe writing is my heart, on my sleeve, on paper. Now I wonder what that would look like ...
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