Maybe Now. We'll See.

Will I ever write about my life? Why should I?  And if it causes more pain? What about the possibility it will incriminate? And if it's honest soul-sharing, isn't that alright? I don't know anymore.
Could I possibly find the language and ability to share and not blame, to examine and simply analyze?  Am I really emotionally ready to give form to and craft words for the impossible whirl and confused torment that have been my reality, my decisions, my grief?
After all, I've lived lots of loss; twice heartbroken with young love, disregarded and discarded by my husband of 23 years, separated from my children and family to whom I devoted three decades of my life, and a sudden move to another continent and culture. 

Where would I begin? How do you talk when your mouth has stayed shut through the worst of it? What do you say when you're not used to talking about the unsightly, the ugly, the insanity?  You are someone who hasn't ever voiced your own heart and mind, and now for your own peace and well-being you must. Or so it seems. Have you ever heard a deaf-mute regain her hearing and try to speak for the first time? Such abnormal periods of previous silence deform words and halt language. But, I don't love the alternative.

So, emotional paralysis aside, I've spent the last four years in Spain learning the meaning of discretion; learning to leave all things personal at the door before going out into the street. What's shared and lived in one time and place stays there. Those are the rules and I admit, even in my natural outgoingness, I've adapted and changed. Now I appreciate modest conversation more than ever. I'm more drawn into the subtleties of speech, of social norms and undercurrents that I often missed before in direct American conversation (albeit sometimes refreshing.) While people are people are people all over the world, Europe is truly different from the USA. Moreover, Northern Spain holds a special reservedness. What initially seemed cold and distant upon arrival, and what I misunderstood many times at first has since grown on me. It's guarded hesitancy that inherently causes me to reflect quietly first. Hopefully it is balancing me. Again, I don't know.

So, back to my question. Will I ever be able to open up, share past and present photographs with honest commentaries that shine light onto my life, my true feelings? Sometimes I shake my head at my reflection. There is a smile, but so much more to be said.
Restlessness, these growing pains growing into a desperate need to write again, a lot and unabashedly. Perhaps, first remembering there is no right or wrong when it comes to feelings, as one counselor needed to tell me repeatedly. Is that true? What about taking every thought captive? What about proverbial warnings about the tongue? Still, perhaps being bold enough to say what one feels in the moment knowing she or he can change it tomorrow if need be is to live the process. Just. Feel. Heal. Live.
So, yes, maybe now it's time to write.  Maybe now those thoughts might move from the inner labyrinth of my mind into the open, and from there, maybe even past the front door and into the street. Maybe now.

We'll see.

No discipline is enjoyable while it is happening--it's painful! But afterward there will be a peaceful harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way.  

Hebrews 12:11
The discipline meaning the concentrating, processing and writing, not the experience of grief. That is something else entirely.