Crying Out from the Belly

Spit me out.

When I began to write this piece, there was no title. No subtext or context that I had previously calculated. In this direct spot, all I have is intuition and frustration. I just need to write something. It has been too long, my love. What are we really doing, my love? The words that come to mind as I stare blankly at the keyboard, waiting for a spark to reunite the flame. Some passion behind what used to bring me so much peace. It makes me think that I may be indulging in too much self-sabotage. Does it really make any sense to push away the one thing that makes you feel alive, at peace in your mind and in sync with your body? It’s got me thinking of this venomous cycle, an odyssey of a tragedy. How many things have I pushed away? See, this right here is why they say the mind is a terrible thing to waste. While I sit here and balance deconstructive thoughts, the person reading right now is wondering where I will land. Will I find some common ground? Will I be able to tell that, well, the initial thought isn’t the problem but the process? See, we tend to run away from our anointing. Do you remember Jonah? Have you ever been so afraid that you have found yourself swallowed up in disappointment, anger, and grief? What do we do with it? Just wallow in it? Yes, swallowed up. There is an image in our mind and baby oh, can we match it with our heart? Could it be both that is lying to me? Am I able to see past regret? Am I able to see what still can be? Some days I feel like this is it, and the only thing keeping count is a slow tick symbolizing that maybe one day it will be clearer. After the rain falls and morning fog. Feeling estranged, like in a constant fight, like putting a square where a sphere should be. I am falling into me. And when the lights go out, I am comforted in bed, knowing tomorrow I might run again. But Jonah had to cry out from the belly before God made the whale spit him out. Maybe that’s what this is, me crying out from inside my own resistance. Three days in the dark before the shore. So tonight I write. Tonight I stop running long enough to be swallowed, to surrender, to finally say: I’m ready. And maybe that’s enough to feel the whale begin to move.