I’ve never considered myself to be a writer. But in the past few years I’ve discovered that I enjoy attempting to write. And while I am an infrequent blogger, I never ever assume that anyone reads these ramblings. They are first and foremost meant for me. There’s something healing in the very act of committing heart to page. Which makes it terrifying when words will not come.
Recently, U2’s Bono was featured on a Focus on the Family podcast where he openly discussed his family, his faith, and any and every thing in between. If you haven’t heard it, you can listen here.
I’ve often quoted this charismatic frontman when discussing the act of writing and the inevitability of writers block. Bono’s advice?
“When you can’t write, write about that.”
Sounds like a great idea…until you find yourself in the position of drawing the proverbial blank when faced with the blank page.
The first thing I ask in this situation is why. Why can’t I write? What’s going inside my head/heart/spirit etc?
If you’ve followed this blog of mine for any length of time, then you’ve seen the phrase ‘The Beautiful Wasteland.’ It’s at once a title for my long-awaited (by me) recording project, and a metaphor for the seasons in my life where I feel I’m wandering in the desert, and the trials and truths discovered along the way.
So if I look inside at what’s going on, then it feels like I’m back in the wasteland.
There’s no definable point of entry to the beautiful wasteland. It’s not like there’s a fence and a big sign saying “keep out!” Even if there were, I’m not entirely certain I’m supposed to make that detour. In this life, Christ warned there’d be troubles and trials and our fair share of wasteland wanderings.
So far, I’m still waiting for the beautiful part.
There have been words given along the way. Pre-dawn musings…late night soliloquies…scribbled on scraps of paper or entered in my phone, creating a travel journal of sorts in the form of cryptic lines of sometimes raw lyrics.
I know full well the weight of the cup of bitterness
I know full well the aftertaste of rage
I feel a song waging deep inside
Not sure if it should see the light of day
It’s a song fit for midnight
And the tempo of the tempest
It’s a rhyme of wrongs
A lyric far too strong
But truth that’s been found along the way
While there are no mile markers in the wasteland, there is beauty. Beauty in the form of truth. The truth about what’s eternal. The truth of love and the One who is Love Incarnate. The Spirit blows where He will, and that wind brings comfort…even in the midst of burning days of trial or cold and lonely nights of introspection.
A new day dawns
The fog burns away
So much to hold
Too much to say
If its not goodbye
And not farewell
Will the vision hold?
Only time will tell
So many moments of glory
So many moments gone by
Colors fleeting and fading
‘Til the day bids goodbye
The blank page is now filled, so I’ll bid this day goodbye. I’m grateful for the words that’ve come. But these wanderings are far from done.
I’m trusting that tomorrow will reveal the beauty for the coming day.