Caged

Recently, I have been searching for writing blogs.  I have had an itch to read what others have written, to learn from them and then go and write myself.  Inside I have an urge to put words on paper (or in this case, type words on a computer screen) and to let my sentences unfold themselves into ideas like a majestic bird unfolds its wings preparing for flight.  First, a few tentative beats of those great, silent pinions and then the unfettered leap into the boundless sky.  Circling and soaring, I want my words to curve and spiral, soundless and powerful.

I have read beautiful accounts of grief and healing.  There are moving writings about motherhood and the pain of infertility.  The more that I read, the more motivated I become.  My restless fingers itch to feel the smooth plastic beneath them and my ears long to hear the click, click of the keyboard.  But the words are trapped.  Somewhere between my mind and my fingertips the sentences are kept caged with clipped wings.  This flightless frustration makes me anxious.

I feel stifled by insecurity.  Reading what others write is inspiring and intimidating in the same moment. The blink, blink, blink of the impatient cursor seems to urge me forward, asking for more and more words that just won't come. Each letter takes effort, each syllable is a struggle but soon the white space fills.  Without resistance flight is impossible so, taking the time to sit here and write (even about not being able to write) brings with it a sense of satisfaction. To think of words and construct them into sentences quiets my needy fingers.

Since starting this blog (a year ago now) the need to write envelops me on occasion.  There are times I have other things to do but the words must come out.  There are times that I haven't a clue what to write but that doesn't suppress the need.  This feeling is reminiscent of my middle and high school days when English was the class that I looked forward to everyday.  In class I would write and for homework I would write but soon I wrote because I needed to write.  Melodramatic stories and sappy poems would pour out of my pen and fill up my notebooks.   

The first paper that I wrote for my Sophomore English class was about my most embarrassing moment.  The day that it had to be turned in I held my lined paper in my hands anxiously waiting for Mrs. Pratt to call for them.  Instead, she asked for volunteers to read their papers at the front of the class.  I had no intention of sharing what I had written on that piece of paper with thirty of my peers but somehow my hand shot into the air. 

I found myself shaking in front of the class, reading what I had carefully written down.  The words came out of my mouth but the voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.  As I read, I heard reactions from my audience, a gasp here, a low chuckle there.  I took a tentative look around the room.  Every face was turned to me, looking expectantly.  "What happened next?" was their unspoken question.  Gaining confidence, I read on.  When I reached the end of my narration my classmates applauded enthusiastically.

That day I recognized the power within words.  The power to portray emotion, to captivate an audience, or to understand a situation that is unfamiliar.  Words in a book can pull me into their world and make me regret when the last page is turned.  Words that I write, although I feel inadequate, help me feel understood and free.  So, although my attempts are imperfect, there are times when the words need to be written, times when my clipped wings need to try again to take to their natural urges and soar.