Like Woven Shawls.

Charles Martin in the book The Dead Don’t Dance wrote about a journal being the places where one is most vulnerable. The deepest place of the being, of the soul. He writes about it being the only ear that will listen and hear.

My writing is very much like that. The deepest places in me, of my soul. It is the darkest and most vulnerable. It is the places that shed the most light into the greatest of me. It is the beautiful imagery of words that God produces in my spirit and weaves in to sentences like a loom. It is the beginning of a sentence that he gives me, the initial lines that starts out my prose. It is the nakedest place I can become. All clothes hidden and the skin revealed. Sometimes soft and smooth like woven shawls around myself; sometimes coarse and cutting like the hurt pained within. My writing is most delicate place I know. It is the places I am most profound and most proud of. The ones I wish everyone could read and know. And the ones I am most embarrassed of and most hidden from. Where I wish and hope the lines are never known or discovered.

~ Written December 6, 2008