what is february about? it's a period of intense waiting. waiting is disconcerting because it makes you introspective. there is nothing to cloud your vision, to occupy your hands, to distract your mind. so you turn inwards, examine every stone, the letters left out of place, the soiled dishes left unwashed in the sink of your soul.
.
life is hard. it gets lonely. it slings fears in your face and watches for your response. it cuts and snares your clothing. branches stick their legs out to trip you. what do we have to conquer it? this amorphous sword called love. and those who are brave wield it boldly. are not afraid to take it out of our coats and fling it around; the more we use it the less gelatine it becomes. the less indistinct. the less wobbly. the substance of love comes from its use.
.
what of love? jesus loves me. that old childhood refrain. this i know? somehow i find that childhood leaves its marks on us indelibly. the core of each of us; our essences, were marked growing up. what sparks love and hate, fear or envy, pride or joy. those were formed early on. to be loved eternally, by an eternal God, who never leaves my side, although i cannot see him, feel him. he knows me. to be completely loved, and yet not know it? let me know your love. that is all i pray these days. let me know your love. then there is love from fellowship- the imperfect loves of friendship. of family. that though tainted, is at least visible. tangible.
.
why do i have so many secrets? perhaps it is because of fear. perhaps a lack of desire to reveal what is precious to people whom i don't care for. to have what is of value demeaned by people i couldn't possibly expect to value it, because i disagree with their vision. yet, don't all of us long to see eye to eye with others on things and issues that matter deeply to us? to have an inner chord struck of deep reassurance, of affirmation, of agreement. that is not easily found.
.
writing is a part of me that has always been secret. even when i won a book prize for $6000 only my parents knew. my blogs are hidden and unpublished. my diaries are secret, obviously. cubes - design writing has been public but it didn't contain my soul. just my mental observations. except that article on epic homes, i think. i've written and researched on the singapore river, on gardens, on warehouses, on the magnetic meeting of two strangers. what i really want to write about is the changing atmosphere of entering a new world, and seeing with fresh eyes. an adventure. could i try? i give myself permission to try. forget the public eye. invest in yourself. give affirmation to my own ideas. instead of writing only what i'm commissioned for. be commissioned by love.
.
i will start writing. even if i'm just staring at a blank page, i dedicate half an hour everyday to writing the short story.
.
it shall be called "reservoir between two walls."
