|Christ Hagia Sofia|
What are my beliefs about my ability? This is the prompt from Tanya on her Day 8 of a 365-day prompt cycle.
I don’t think others can write what I write better than I can (though they can surely help me revise). I know I have a unique topic. However, I believe that it won’t matter—those that disregard me will still disregard me and leave me whining on the stairwell, always shorter than them, of course, saying "What about me? Look at me. Listen to me!” I will never be good or original enough as a writer. God should have kept me on as a teacher able to bring out other people’s voices.
The image seems funny to me now, me as "The Incredible Shrinking Woman." In the movie of that name, Lily Tomlin’s character shrinks due to household chemicals. I don’t remember what brings her back. I’ll have to watch the movie again. But not now. That would be procrastination.
Susan, is anyone as hard on you as you are? I have a list of people I would like to please, but I won’t put it here because those on the list might be reading. Actually, I know better. Some of them are dead.
And I have to grieve the time I spent/spend still internalizing these voices. I’d like to laugh with them instead, which may mean to mature a whole lot. But here’s the trick: Anyone can work on getting stolid and stoic and moving on. I’d like to face them and talk with them and not squelch them but find out how to work with and use them. If being ignored was the biggest hurt, I won’t do the same to them.
I wonder if I could love this enemy in a different way: Instead of using the enemy for whining material, I’d like to use it as writing material. I could read to it or write with it, like I did in today’s poem “Courage,” maybe.
Sweet Jesus, my buddy, collaborate, OK? Sit right here by me or on my lap or in the big chair and let me read to you. As you listen, help me notice what is past and what is present and what would—ground down a little—make good ink.
I remember being angry about a God that would sacrifice his only son on a cross even only symbolically. It was just recently a member of my Buddies of Jesus group said to me (acting all innocent like), but Jesus is God. God wasn’t sacrificing his son, he was experiencing being sacrificed. You see? That’s the mystery of any life, the Alices' lives surely, and maybe even my own. It is God carrying these crosses and surely it is the Great Mystery that needs to experience what we’re going to do about it.
I will write more as way opens.