I have spent much of my life telling myself stories to make sense of the world. It has been, relatively speaking, easy to make sense of my life. The characters and atories are manageable. But as my world has expanded through broader understanding and more vast information, I am having a harder and harder time making sense of it all.
And I caution myself with jumping to conclusions too quickly because that’s a dangerous approach. So as new information overwhelms my system and I don’t yet (maybe never?) have the stories to make sense of it, I can’t help but freeze.
And sometimes let the tears fall. Because, while my brain may not be able to make sense of it, the grief still needs to be felt. The horror still needs to be felt. The anger still needs to be felt.
While I don’t expect to be able to make sense of it all, I do wish at times I did not have to try to do so. And then I remember, what a privilege it is to have that choice.
I write everyday because it allows me to voice what is at the surface. Once that is out of my head, I can dig in another layer deeper. My daily writing practice has been my greatest exploration of self and humanity. Sign up here to receive these thought nuggets in your inbox on the daily.