Yes, it has been three months, to the day, since I have blogged.
While this fact has constantly been nagging at the back of mind (occasionally aided by the physical voices of a few loyal followers), every time I try to think of words to write, my life stares back at me like a blank page. I feel like a monstrous case of writer’s block.
Life since India seems muted. Color is there. Life, purpose, community—all the good things of existence—swirling around in the natural ebb and flow of sun risings and settings. But less poignant. Less vibrant. Dull.
I know there are things to write about here. It wasn’t the large things of India that drew my focus. I loved discovering small details, having the time to slow down long enough to notice the ordinary. Even now I’m probably surrounded by hundreds of miniature wonders; I’ve probably seen them so many times I’ve grown blind their existence. I’m probably walking so fast I don’t take the time to notice. Probably.
Half the things I love about India, the Indians likely aren’t even aware of. Maybe they have my problem in reverse. So somehow, my eyes need to become a stranger in their own home.
It’s also just a season. We all have to learn to walk with God through splendor, through pain… through boredom.
As I was walking with my mom last week we were discussing my dullishness. I was lamenting the lack of having anything specific to process. She told me it wasn’t a bad thing not to have issues to work through. “Yes, but being healthy is boring,” I said. She laughed.
She’s right. I should just be grateful for a healthy reprieve. I’m not sure why I’m writing all this other than the fact that I’m tired of walking through a maze of tedious social conventions and want to vent, that something of some kind needed to be written, and maybe there are others of you that can relate to the fact that life does not always feel like an adventure.
I should it make it my goal for my next post to find something ordinary worth noticing.