I don’t write much here these days. Or at least not as much as I would like to. I blame in part the books that I’ve been given to lately. Letters and biographies that inspire little for writing to a general audience. Perhaps with the publication of A Country of My Own I’ve never stopped feeling like I’ve exhausted the patience of others with the vapidity of my thoughts. Circumspection marks much of my writing these days, at least on this page. That’s a sad thing to ponder. Words ought to be sincere, and I find little sincerity in writing anything worth your time that does not encourage you in some way. But life’s lessons of late have been birth from a battered heart, and I do not wish to burden you with that. Though I know it’s my way of avoiding a sorrow so deep that knows little of expressing.
And so I try to write something about the beauty of God. I like to believe I try to. But any attempt soon finds a literary cul-de-sac. The sentences refuse to form into anything meaningful. For of a life in God that washes upon the shores of perception, there is no image or shape. Nothing for the thinking mind’s comprehending grip. Words cannot express it, yet no tongue has sullied it. It all means more than I can tell you. So you must not judge what I know by what I find words for.
Most of my heart’s impressions no longer surmount the inconvenience of leaving the safety of my journal. But I would like to write here again. There is great joy in the thought.