Because Hilary Bean said I could...and that I should

(Get ready for some train-of-thought writing.)

I wonder what it would be like if glass could bleed.
When we hurt, we say that we feel "broken," "cracked," or "shattered." I feel like all that's left of my heart is a pile of broken bits - tiny shards of glass. For some reason, the pile sparkles like diamonds. The picture doesn't quite make sense to me, because I know that my heart is an organ...and if anything it's red.

Glass is sharp - especially when it's broken. It's something that we're careful to stay clear of because we know that it will cause us pain - that it will make us bleed.

But what would it be like if glass could bleed?

Would the shattered pile of crystals slowly turn blood red? Would there be an oozing puddle - something to clean up aside from the broken sparkly bits?


My friend wanted me to write again. I told her, "I can't. I'm blocked. And when I'm not blocked, all I generally have is pain."
And she told me that was okay.
And I am thankful for that. Truly thankful. Because, Lord knows, I have enough pictures and words in my head to fill a page right now.


I think we have trouble with grieving in our society. And I wonder if it has now become the responsibility of the artist to be the funnel for that emotion. I am putting my pain onto the page, or the canvas, or on stage so that those in the audience can be swept up in it. Sharing my pain allows them to feel theirs. We all feel together. We all cry together. We are all washed clean together.
It's a strange idea about being baptized in tears, and I wonder if it's slightly heretical. (I'm studying theology, after all, so this sort of thing matters.) But, looking at other claims in the Bible where the writer points an ugly finger at God (perhaps a theologically inaccurate finger at God), and seeing His response of gracious love, maybe my metaphor is "okay."

I've been praying a lot to God lately. It goes like this, "What the f*ck?" I figure that if God can handle a whole book of Job and several Psalms, He can handle my prayer. And I am thankful that He does. And I figure that if the Holy Spirit intercedes for me in my groaning (or in my simple, three-word prayer) then God can understand what I cannot fully express but can only hint at when I raise my fist in the air and shake it at Him in my pain. Really, it's not my fist that I'm raising - it's my heart.


Art is a strange thing. For it to be good, it has to be honest. That's what good communication is. And while I've so desperately wanted to write, I've been afraid to because of my desire to protect others. If this is uncomfortable to read, just think how it feels to write it. I don't want you, my dear reader, to be worried about me. And yet, as a human being, I want to be cared for. Maybe I do want to raise some concern.
There's a passage that comes to mind. I don't remember where it is, exactly (kinda like the one I referenced earlier about the Holy Spirit). But it has to do with bearing one another's burdens. What does it say when I refuse to let my family (extended beyond genetics) help me carry this burden? I say that I'm doing it out of protection for them...but let's be honest: I'm doing it out of the desire to protect myself. I don't want to be seen as broken. I want to be the girl with the smiling face - the girl who makes people laugh. I don't want to be the girl who has trouble walking because her (metaphorical) legs were just taken out from underneath her - who is now having trouble breathing after having the wind knocked out of her. (My view, as I gaze up into the sky from the position of lying on my back is of deep, dark, rolling clouds, by the way.) I don't want to tell people that my world right now is a hellhole of brokenhearted pain.
I would rather struggle under the burden of a broken heart, wrapped up in the smothering sheets of my pride. But that's how they lay people in tombs. And I want to live.

So, here I am: following the advice of one famous writer: "Writing is easy, all you have to do is bleed all over the page." I have a lot of pride.

Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. And what the f*ck.