threaded

Outside

SamHere is a free write of mine. Which basically means writing without forethought and without crafting. It’s sort of a rant/spill type of journaling. So here are my spills.

When I go outside, I melt away and I’m alone with the page, the blank page in front of me. And it is light and color, hot red color and cool blue color, and I feel and I see and I move, and I’m unafraid. I’m unafraid outside. With my words and my mind spinning, and scenes unrolling before me. I’m at sea, on a sailboat, and the waves are blue and salty. I’m at sea. On voyage. When I’m outside writing.

Writing for you, and writing for me. I give, and I get when I go to my porch, beneath that hot sun, hot on my skin, leaving its mark. Remember me, it says. And I know that’s why I write. Remember me, I say. Remember me and remember my God, won’t you.

Outside, I’m sitting and taking in the blue of the sky and the black words flying across the screen. Periods and sentences. I love them all, all in front of me, holding me, as I hold them. And I think that maybe they keep me safe, these words that I love to spill. That I can’t seem to contain. They leak from me, leak through to me. And I am in them, in the words, and they in me. But I think that maybe I don’t know. Not really. Maybe I don’t know what it’s like to really be free. Maybe I don’t know the sweet taste of that. Maybe I’ve only had glimmers, but those glimmers, my weren’t they lovely. Like little slivers of cake, still delightful, leaving me wanting more. But God has the cake. I know he does. I know he has the whole cake behind his shelf. He doesn’t give slivers. That’s just not the kind of baker he is. He is big and generous. I know that. And I want it. Oh yes!

Outside, there is cake and picnics and ants, marching in their sweet lines. I think there is magic here, magic underneath this impossibly beautiful sky, so gorgeous it reminds me that there is more, much more than the ordinary beauty around me. There is supernatural beauty here too. I can’t see it all that well, hardly at all. But this is the kind of beauty I want to write about it. A mother nursing her child. A friend taking the hand of their mate when the playground seems big and scary. A friend dying for me. He did. And I want to write to him, for him. Oh God, I fail at this. I do. I wind this way and that, and I wonder if I’m really writing for you, the way I want to. I wonder if you are shining through, or if I am turning your gold into brass. Oh God, help me. Help me not cheapen or lessen or weaken the story of you.

I cannot write it all. Cannot write all of you. You are too much. Help me write a sliver. Help me find the sliver I can write and write it well. Won’t you help me? Won’t you come and guide these fearful hands . Show me how to write unafraid. Show me how to write you. Show me. I am outside, out here with you, and I am ready.

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3 thoughts on “Outside

  1. Beautiful, Sam! Every word moved me. Keep writing!

  2. Heather Ostalkiewicz on said:

    Sammy this was gorgeous! So many lines that I loved. The transition from your porch to a sea voyage was magical. Reminded me of a Narnian story actually. “Writing for you, and writing for me. I give, and I get when I go to my porch, beneath that hot sun, hot on my skin, leaving its mark. Remember me, it says. And I know that’s why I write. Remember me, I say. Remember me and remember my God, won’t you.” I love how writing is a cry for remembrance.

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