Zora Neale Hurston once said that there was no agony like having an untold story inside you (my paraphrase).
I think I have been living in that space for a while.
Yes, I’ve been writing and have published some pieces, but the story that my son keeps telling me I need to write is probably the story I have been waiting the longest to expose to the world.
My husband says that we do not owe anyone our story.
In light of the Twitter take over and my previous statements about social media, I began to contemplate a bit more of how much of our lives are already under the naked glare of the blue light of smart phones.
Who are these people we have invited into our atmosphere at the mere swipe?
When are our lives objects to be consumed in ten seconds or less?
What is the harm we have done to ourselves and others by always trying to be provocative or alluring enough for one to stay on our page long enough to ramp up clicks, followers, or likes?
I am an introvert.
An INFJ actually, part of the rare 3% of folks who are at once Advocates and also deeply personal and private people, even though it may seem like our lives are open books. The essence and core of who we are is held close at heart.
Everyone does not get a glimpse.
Perhaps that is the work that all of us who are living our lives between the pages of a book considering when we sit down and write. Are we writing for ourselves or are we writing because it is our gift to the world?
Maybe it is a bit of both, whether anyone reads it or not or likes what we have to say.
It is permanent, if we send it out into the universe. One day, what we have recorded will matter to someone who maybe stumbles upon it and considers that our perspective on life was worth exploring.
What I have known is that I have endeavored to understand the world through deep thinking and reflection.
I am not the most charismatic orator. Even as a woman in ministry, I am much more didactic, in that I am a thinker and teacher. I am not one who is a quick wit with just the right turn of phrase to stir up emotions.
But get me in a room with my handmade pens and journals, or even sitting behind my keyboard thinking about what is happening and I can be my fullest self.
Being our fullest self is the gift we are to the universe.
There are no two of us. Just one. And each one has a reason for being.
After a really difficult interview where there were some curveball questions that took me off guard, I found myself momentarily paralyzed unable to pull out the social/emotional memory file that would have satisfactorily satisfied this committee.
It reminded me how much of an INFJ I am and that verbal jabs are not my strong suit.
While I spent some time criticizing myself for remembering after the fact what I should have said, I had to take myself on a drive to still celebrate who I was and what I have been able to do over the past forty years.
My son, my biggest encourager, has been telling me to write for the past fifteen years. Specifically, was telling me to “write your story, Mama, it will encourage somebody.”
The private part of me didn’t want the prying eyes, even though, again, I have shared snippets of what has been a life fully lived in spite of the obstacles placed in my way.
I have words and more words tucked away. Maybe it will be be out in the world just like the late great Cicely Tyson did. She said what she had to say, gave the world her Memoir, and whispered good bye just a few days after her last interview about that book.
What I do know is that when the universe is ready, Evolve will be read.
Until then, I will write anyway.