The Conduit

So now this one thousand words is being used as a diary? I really hope not. My plan is to come up with something fresh everyday. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m late. Even when I’ve overslept and let the poor chickens wait half an hour to be let out. It’s at times like this that my day starts off with guilt and other bad feelings, like dejection. It’s not rejection, it’s dejection. Is that even a word? I just looked it up for me. Yes, it’s a word. It means: lowness of spirits. It’s not other people putting me down, rejection. It’s me putting me down, dejection. That’s sad. Just really sad. But it happens. It happens to me at a drop of the hat and I’m sure it happens to almost everybody sometime. It happened to me yesterday. I reread my new story before bedtime. I felt dejection. This isn’t very good. It isn’t very good at all. That’s how my thoughts went. How can I be putting this stuff out there like this? Went through my head. Like a wind which gently but firmly comes out of the sky directly above me in a spiral down-wards motion. It pushes me down until I am quite deeply stuck in the dirt. And I mean deep. This wind called dejection can push us so deep that we can’t see because we are like a little rock down in the ground, all covered up. It just keeps it’s pressure on me. Then it gives me a little extra push. I feel like I’m going to be mortally humiliated in front of my family. I feel sure that I will be laughed at and mocked. The wind of dejection thinks it’s got me now because shame is a huge tool it uses to silence me and it has worked in the past. It has gotten me to pack up all my journals and lock them in the trunk. It even got me to throw them all out once. It got me to throw away my writing course. It got me to eliminate writing tools. But it can’t stop me. Because I love to write and I have dug those journals out of the trash time after time and moved them around the house closer to my daily work spaces, farther away, closer again, back and forth. I fight back. I always fight back. Dejection is the enemy. It wants to silence me and take away my talent. But I’m angry at it. It’s just trying to shut me up and I won’t be beat down. God is my friend and strength and He gives me tools to fight back with. The more I write, the stronger I become and the more I read the stronger I become. I can’t help but be humble, because I’m truly just a beginner and my talent undeveloped. I know that there will always be those who are better, world’s better. It doesn’t matter what I do, there will always be those who do it better than me. But with writing it differs only in that no one can write what is inside of me. The skill with which I write will develop and grow with use. The confidence will come with practice. Dejection can kiss my ass because I’m still writing and I’m blogging it and putting it out there in spite. It may be late in the day. I may have messed up on my duties this morning and be really late for breakfast, but I’m writing. Dejection tries to ruin all the good parts of my life. It has tried for as long as I can remember. Keeping me from doing what I truly want and being what I truly am. Making me feel silly about being me. Making me feel like all the good stuff is for everybody else but not for me. If you really think about it, it makes no sense at all.

What I found out since I’ve been bravely writing and sharing with the world, is that I have the best sisters in the world. My oldest sister inspires me everyday. She works really hard all day, every day. I’ve never had to work as hard physically as my oldest sister works. She looks forward to coming home from work and relaxing in the evening to read what I have written that day. Makes me cry just thinking about it. Pushes me to write. Pushes me to write better. To give her something worth reading. I can’t quit now. No matter how dejected I’m tempted to feel. I have to fight. I have to win in the fight against dejection. I have to overcome. I have to do it for her and for all my sisters but mostly for me.

I have a picture in my mind from a creepy movie I watched a long time ago. A hand sticking out of the dirt and the body pulling itself out of the ground. That’s what I’m seeing. That’s me not staying down, not staying dejected. That’s me.

Actually what I felt when I finished reading my story was emotional. I was moved to tears. I felt a connection with the lady. I don’t even know her name. I know the names of her children, but I don’t know her name. I don’t know what she looks like, nor the color of her hair, eyes or skin. I don’t know what style she likes, what kind of car she drives. I don’t know what country she lives in or what language she speaks. I don’t even know what her age is. But I’m bound to find out. Perhaps there is something in the lady’s story which we can all relate to in some way. I don’t know. The story is actually about a house. I just read something by ‘Carlos Cooper’. He said that “The story isn’t mine. I’m just the conduit”. He said God brings him the story.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,007 words