I have been silent before. It comes form motions, inertia from meeting the needs of the immediate. It hushes the responses and confuses the thoughts so they are nothing but a cacophony of voices. It is your own voice that feels like the chords have been cut. It is rooted in the routine of laundry, work, children, and exhaustion. Silence makes you feel unimportant.
I started this blog to rail against it. It use collected, unaccounted for minutes to write, to use my voice instead of sit on facebook or wrap myself in a movie. To become the observer, the constant listener. I needed it to shout the days, the lessons... to chronical the life I live. My sons... my daughter... my husband... my faith.. my job... my passions... my own voice contributing the the symphony of sound and need and humanity.
It is dicipline to speak... to write. There is a danger in not writing. There is a danger in remembering the things that identity is knotted to in inseverable ways.
Forgive spelling. Forgive the error. I just had to think. To speak. To wave my words frantically at myself to remind myself that I am still in here. That God still listens. That there is liberation in the process.
