Lest it all spills out

by Anna Blanch on September 5, 2012

It’s like being thrown forward to tumbling over and again whacking every flat surface of my body and being twisted up in the lengths of fabric. Sometimes life is so full to its edges you feel like you’re almost being suffocated by the things that normally offer comfort and warmth.

There are points in life when there is too much and where my response to it is so intense that to feel any of it, let alone write about, threatens to overwhelm.

It is not always moments of negativity, trial or stress when it seems like the only way to begin to come to a point of understanding is to hold it all in, lest it all spills out. The last few months have been full. Full of good, and adventure, and hope, and joy, but also moments of stress — externally applied — to the point where it felt like there couldn’t possibly be more. And yet around the corner, as each week dawned there was more – more good, more difficult, more complicated, more difficult, more struggle.

To let it all spill out seems less than discrete, less than prudent, less than the kind of thing sensible people who have something to say would do. But, then, in being s contained I fail to allow myself to process and eventually it all does come spilling out in that kind of messy, hot and tear-stained face kind of way.

If I’m real, I allow few to see me at my most vulnerable.

I fear also writing about the tumult of life without giving time for the dust to settle. I fear that I will read myself and feel foolish, appear foolish. “Lest one speak and leave the world under no illusion.” I remind myself of the great gifts and blessings of much of the “more” that I deal with.

This is perhaps also a failure of character. That I care too much about maintaining composure and convincing (in the least) myself that I am not “too much.” In these moments when it is just God and I, when I have to acknowledge I do not feel inclined to let others in, or to let it all spill out. In these moments I have chosen just to be. Yet, I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge that as writer, I struggle with my own inability to write about it.

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