Here I am, sitting at Starbucks eating oatmeal, reading Father Elijah, and listening to James Taylor, Elton John, and Carly Simon on Pandora—with my ear-buds in. It may sound ordinary, but it is anything but that for me.
The Lord is speaking to me through all my senses: the music, the lyrics, the words on the page of the book, the words from a complete stranger who struck up a conversation with me because my journal was open on the table where I sat, the beating of my heart, the deep breathing that I am conscious of. I cannot keep my feet still. They are keeping time to the music on their own accord—they will not be stopped. I fear I may start singing aloud without realizing it.
Yesterday was the first time in over three years that I could bear to listen to music because music touches me so deeply, and that deep place has been filled with sorrow floating on tears stored up from years of missteps.
But the season has changed—suddenly, unexpectedly, almost bizarrely. I have the music loud in my ears, so loud that I fear I am sharing it with my coffee-neighbors. The world around me is physically busy, but I am in my own little world, with my own thoughts that are blasting in all directions—back into the past and sideways into my present and back again.
My present fear prevents me from prying too far into the life ahead—fears of rejection, of success, of pride, of failure, of the trauma to the introverted self as I move forward as an author.
My life as I have known it is now over . . . and I am very thankful for that. The changing of seasons is such a wonderful occurrence for those of us who are compelled to keep moving on, to continue to seek the new, and then turn it into the familiar and back again.
Thank you, Lord, for turning the music on again in my life.