A Page at a Time

A page at a time, a day at a time, is the way we must live our writing lives. Credibility lies in the act of writing. That is where the dignity is.

-Julia Cameron, The Right to Write

Here in the gray light early on a Saturday, the mist wraps about the house like a trail of dancers on a stage. We are closed in. I can see nothing past the driveway.

I know the mountains are out there, in the distance -- their rolling, massive weight frames the horizon. I know the sun is up, too. Else why would there be light now? But I cannot see it.

Somewhere past the mist is a blue sky with sunshine and views.

But not in my world. Not now. Here all is wetness and wonder.

What is it about us and seeing? We are told that we must walk by faith, not by sight. Still, all I want is a vision. I want to see and touch the future, the plan God has for us. I want views.

I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jer 29:11 NIV) This he said to the Jewish people when they were in exile, in Babylon. Further, he said, You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you . . . and will bring you back from captivity.(29:13)

What is hope, and how does it work? For the seeker must have a hope, or why does he search? One thing I know, I do not search and I do not suffer as one without hope. Regardless of how I feel on any given day. I know this because it is written down for me. Like a map, the words of scripture lay out the course I run.

Sometimes in my mind, I have seen myself lying down upon the ground in these old hills and feeling the contour of the land like a blind girl learning to read Braille, seeking God's message to me. A word, any word, would be good right now. The land bubbles up and hollows out under me, and I fill it with my own flesh, and I wait. Only the birds make sounds overhead. The way lies within you. It is already there, in your heart, a thought softer than a whisper. I arise and shake myself off and go home.

So it is. I trust. I write. I write like free fall. I leap into the mist. It feels like a gasp, like air sucked from my lungs before I take the plunge and the words hit the page every day. The words flow from a hidden place in my soul. The words make me, as I make them. I was blind and could not see it, the birth. In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God. He was in the beginning . . . All things came into being by Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being. (John 1 NASB)

So it is. He has made all things, even this.

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This was posted as part of the discussion about Julia Cameron's The Right to Write at High Calling Blogs. You can go there to read more reflections on writing.