The gritty unrelenting pressure I feel to play with words, to express something, to caress the memory of you or him or her or that and bottle it well, beautifully, so that I can place the refined and distilled juice (poisonous or not) corked tight and unassuming on my bookshelf along with a few other quirky items, my kaleidoscope, my shells or my hand-carved tiny box, to look at when I’m dusting or rearranging books is overwhelming me.
I must write, I think, or I might go mad… And of course, this means I must write poetically.
And when I’m not feeling mad at all?
I would like to comfort and encourage you, beautiful friend. You are pursuing Christ and growing. You are educating yourself and you are struggling. You are wonderful to me. And I’m right here with you.