Draft number four

When the words won't come & that's okay

It’s Thursday at 4:38 pm and I don’t know what to write about this week. I typically schedule The Thread reflection to land in your inboxes in the early morning hours on Thursdays.

This is draft number four.

I wrote you essays about stability and risk, a poem about unfolding bodies, and one about how we dance around the truth. I’m sure they’ll make their way to you at a later date but today is not their day.

Former versions of me would have twisted and contorted my mind into knots forcing a thread to come loose. I’d have rolled the ball of knotted yarn in my anxious hands, convinced self-imposed deadlines are unbreakable. I’d have pulled string after string, searching for the one that would break free from the others, finally revealing itself to be the shimmering magical idea. I’d have doubted my very worth as a human being if I didn’t produce a reliable outcome.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

I’m delighted to report I did none of that today.

I noticed the lack of energy and closed my Substack tab. Instead, I finished a message I’m sharing with church leaders in Arizona in a couple weeks. I felt my complicated feelings about the calendar turning to June 1. The next thirty days are full and big and sad and curious and exciting. I reviewed and chose my new health insurance plan. I recovered from spending two days at 5th grade camp with my daughter and her school. I paid a couple bills, caught up on a few of my favorite Substack authors, and took my children to their annual eye doctor visit (no new glasses and one kid doesn’t need them anymore!). I made a list of all that needs packed in the next nine days before my husband drives a U-Haul to our storage unit in Oregon.

After we arrived at home after the eye doctor, I grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down with my laptop. I decided to tell you about the day I had no words to offer you.

To my surprise, being honest about having no words ended up showing me a lovely beautiful step of growth. We can interrupt deeply engrained patterns that scream at us to hustle and muscle through. We can learn to trust ourselves. Where our energy flows and where it doesn’t. Our bodies always have a story to whisper and shout, if only we’ll listen in.

A while back, I discerned three values for my writing life. The second one is “no violence.” I trust stories will emerge when they’re ready and I’m committed to not adding violence to the creative process.

We’ll call today a win.

My body breathes a deep sigh of contentment as I watch the sunlight filter through the leaves by my window. Almost as if to say, “Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for not forcing me to create when I needed space. You believed me. I feel safe with you. I can unfold with ease in your presence.”

I love her.

---

Here we are after the first night in our new apartment in Salem, Oregon! If I’m a little scarce around here this summer, know it’s because I’m moving through this transition with all the intentionality, grace, and gratitude I can muster. I’ll give myself lots of space to write and create when the energy shimmers. In the meantime, here’s our beautiful archive from this past year!

I’m SO grateful for each other you!

---