I've had the urge to update these pages, and have started a number of posts only to leave them languishing in the drafts folder. Too much to say right now and an inability to say it. As I prepare to say goodbye to Tiny Church, emotions are right at the surface. I feel gangly and prickly. I climbed into the pulpit on Sunday with a page missing from my sermon. As I pronounced the benediction, my throat got a weird scratchy tickle in it from the dry air, which brought tears to my eyes, which made it seem like I was crying, but I wasn't, except just physiologically. But then I was, a little. I want to write but the words do not come. This is frightening when one has made a decision to write as one's primary vocation. And when you're not writing, it looks like everyone else is. Everyone.
I seem to be called to trust that the words will come, and to put myself into places and conversations that are plump and abundant and maybe daring and see what happens. I seem to be called to plant seeds and ingest nourishing things and not worry about output at this particular moment. I think and hope I'm reading this right.
So during this time of collecting and breathing and grieving and changing, allow me to share unformed thoughts and tidbits in this space that knock me over. Here is today's offering: a video of an excerpt of David Foster Wallace's masterpiece commencement address at Kenyon College in 2005.
You get to decide how you're gonna see.
You will look at the video length of 9:22 and wonder whether you have that kind of time and attention. And when you start watching you won't want to stop.