I’ve started writing about 5 different things at this point and I don’t feel settled in any of them. I’ve deleted a lot of words and backspaced and ate queso and pondered and stared at people as they walk around downtown and wished words might just come flowing out and inspiration might hit me.

But as I sit here and write that sentence- why the hell would it?

Why would the perfect topic, or statement or thought process suddenly become so tangible and real?

Writing has not felt like myself these days. It hasn’t felt as it used too, it hasn’t felt like a place where I meet God and flesh out whatever thing is going in my head.

It’s felt more like I’m staring at a screen and some form of God is sitting across from me drinking a scotch (it seems right) and every time I think I’m onto something I pass them the computer and they gently shrug their shoulders and go “if that’s where you want to go”. Normally they sort of look bored and usually attempt to steal whatever snack I’m eating.

So the process starts again and they shrug again.

Sometimes I just say screw it and post words that still hit me between the eyes but don’t necessarily go all the way down to my toes.

And then they just say “it’s a piece of it”.

Because that’s true- it is a piece of it. It is SOME of it.

It’s not all of it.

I look at them at that point and say “Of course it’s a piece of it. It can’t be all of it”.

There’s always an eyebrow raise and then I want to cry because that seems like the only reasonable response to whatever is happening.

Not that I don’t want to deal with all it. I do and I am. But it’s not time yet.

It’s kind of like I’m completing one of the puzzles in my classroom with the kids. We have some that have the picture on the back of them and some that don’t and those ones are sometimes tricky to decide which frame it is. And sometimes when all the puzzle pieces have gotten put in a basket (I learned I have a new pet peeve this week) and I have to put them all back together; I don’t always choose the right puzzle frame the first time because they are just close enough and I get almost all the way through before I realize that I am putting the puzzle in the wrong frame. And then I have to restart it.

I feel like I’ve been using the wrong puzzle frame lately. Like I’ve been putting everything in what I thought it was supposed to be in.

So, the picture is right, but I didn’t give myself enough room.

I don’t have the space for all the pieces.

So, when I sit here, across from God, them drinking their scotch and stealing my queso and me drinking some champagne-based cocktail, we usually have a stare down.

And as much as I’m stubborn and could very easily win the stare down (I know, I couldn’t whatever), I realize that all the God sitting across from me wants is for me to take my space I’m supposed to take.

And choose the things that bring me life in that space.

And until I do that, they are going to sit across from me drinking scotch and wondering why I keep typing things that I don’t need to type.

Sometimes, I will start those words and then usually throw my hands up and just say “I can’t”.

And they take a sip and say “I know”.

And we stare a little more.

At this point for the 20^th time in this writing process I usually ask, “So, what should I write about?”

Normally they shrug and say “Just the piece of it”.

Or “Not that.”

It could end with me slamming my computer and just dealing with the fact that I have “nothing to say” or deleted all the words.

Or, like today. Sitting in the discomfort of knowing that this is just a piece of it. That it’s just a puzzle piece I’m choosing to move into the frame that’s big enough for it. And that singular piece looks small and insignificant.

 But it’s not.

My story. All of the little pieces that I have to flesh out, all the things that feel messy or small or even seemingly unimportant are not.

I’m not.

Then I take a deep breath and finish the rest of my mimosa and God looks at me and finishes their scotch.

“How do you feel?”

I ponder it for a moment.

I’m always afraid of the words I write on Sunday because without fail they show up through the rest of the week, as if they are trying to remind me all week what I said.

“It’s gonna be ok”

They raise their glass for me to clink.

“Well, tell them.”

This is for you. This somewhat messy stream of conscious weird conversation I have with God while writing is for you. It’s to know that wherever you’ve been, wherever you are going, whatever you’ve done or haven’t done- you are existing in your story.

And sometimes you just need a bigger puzzle frame.

If you’re feeling small right now in the space you’re in or you are absolutely like too much, it’s probably a reminder that you need to be in a different space.

The space doesn’t tell you who you are- you tell the space who you are.

Right now, that’s where I’m living. I understand I am being absolutely defined by the spaces I am in to a point where that’s all I’m defined by.

If you need a new space than go find it.

I can tell you right now that there is a space and a place and home that is absolutely waiting for you to bring all that you are into it.

And if no one has told you lately- you are enough for those spaces. Not too much, not too small.

Just enough.

With love,

Meg