A Cleansing Sort of Silence
Have you heard The Auld Triangle? There's something about Irish melodies/harmonies that always hit me so hard. I love the melancholy tunes. I love the accent. I love their voices. I want to sing like that some day.
Not today.
I have way too many other projects underway — and a handful of those are inching forward too slowly.
I'm looking forward to becoming a full-on writer. Today, the roads were dreadful. I dream of the day where my old car sits in the driveway getting buried underneath the elements. I'll boil myself a cup of tea, sit at my cluttered desk, turn on some background noise, and type away.
That's the dream; that's my dream.
Well, I got a million dreams, and they keep piling up — and a lot of them overlap — but writing stories tugs at my heart forever.
Imagine if we encouraged each other to listen for God's still, soft voice — instead of the clamoring commands from our culture. I think our hearts would hurt a lot less.
The more I seek God's voice, the clearer I feel the call to write. What exactly doesn't matter. Well, it sort of does. The more I seek God, the more I want to write everything.
Bah! I don't know how to express it. How do you express the tug in your heart that draws you to almost everything?
I want my buried car. I want my cup of tea. I want my cluttered desk. I want my background noise. I want to type away — perhaps only to attempt to express all the tugs on my heart.
I think that's where I get my stories: all of these pulls in all of the directions.
One of my favorite sounds is the silence of snow. Can you envision the soft floof a blanket makes when you give it a light whip? Snow is like an endlessly falling blanket. After that, it's probably rain for me — then maybe the sound of a fan. Admittedly, I'd prefer a clean silence, but that's too rare a luxury lately.
Mmm, and then there are some voices that ring with a cleansing sort of silence. That's how I feel about many Irish songs; they're quiet and tender.
You should listen to The Auld Triangle by The High Kings.
Not today.
I have way too many other projects underway — and a handful of those are inching forward too slowly.
I'm looking forward to becoming a full-on writer. Today, the roads were dreadful. I dream of the day where my old car sits in the driveway getting buried underneath the elements. I'll boil myself a cup of tea, sit at my cluttered desk, turn on some background noise, and type away.
That's the dream; that's my dream.
Well, I got a million dreams, and they keep piling up — and a lot of them overlap — but writing stories tugs at my heart forever.
Imagine if we encouraged each other to listen for God's still, soft voice — instead of the clamoring commands from our culture. I think our hearts would hurt a lot less.
The more I seek God's voice, the clearer I feel the call to write. What exactly doesn't matter. Well, it sort of does. The more I seek God, the more I want to write everything.
Bah! I don't know how to express it. How do you express the tug in your heart that draws you to almost everything?
I want my buried car. I want my cup of tea. I want my cluttered desk. I want my background noise. I want to type away — perhaps only to attempt to express all the tugs on my heart.
I think that's where I get my stories: all of these pulls in all of the directions.
One of my favorite sounds is the silence of snow. Can you envision the soft floof a blanket makes when you give it a light whip? Snow is like an endlessly falling blanket. After that, it's probably rain for me — then maybe the sound of a fan. Admittedly, I'd prefer a clean silence, but that's too rare a luxury lately.
Mmm, and then there are some voices that ring with a cleansing sort of silence. That's how I feel about many Irish songs; they're quiet and tender.
You should listen to The Auld Triangle by The High Kings.
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