My legs twitch and my fingers itch. Electricity vibrates in my legs, up and down, up and down, side to side, side to side, shaking, shaking. An urge to run fast and far from here overtakes. Wanderlust kindles in my chest and pushes my heart back and forth, back and forth. Ants run atop my fingertips, racing for pen and paper. I sit in silence and stare, the blood pulsing through me, hitting the underside of my skin.
It’s all so frightening. I burn with words and wander. What do I do? What do I write? Where do I go?
Where shall I go from Your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from Your presence?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh how I yearn to travel the world. How can I explain the fervor that courses so much deeper than the casual “Paris would be fun.” I don’t mean a vacation. Does no one understand?
If I ascend to heaven, You are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, You are there!
Everything in me tells me to write, to finish this story I’ve begun. But I’m drowning in a blurry sea of words. I have not the right lenses to see clearly which words I must choose. I want to fly like a fish through that ocean of phrases and take the words that I need. I wish to be a magnet and the right words metal.
If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost part of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand cover me.
I hold home so dearly, I cherish my family. I love the hills that surround our neighborhood, I love my school, the friends that are so precious. I love my bedroom and the comfort of a space that is all mine. But all those books I’ve taken in, films I’ve seen, paintings I’ve admired, pieces of music that have inspired, all this art I’ve absorbed pulls at my soul and seeps in my bones.
My legs twitch, yet I cannot move. The feet below me are glued to the floor. Emotion swirls within me, I squeeze my eyes shut.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,” even the darkness is not dark to You; the night is as bright as day, for darkness is as light with You.
This wanderlust for words and the world is beginning to do more than keep me warm. It consumes and confuses. I’ve got to share this feeling but I fear that it won’t be understood. Misunderstanding, empty nods of head, and practicality terrify me.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in Your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.
There is One, whose hands formed me, who knows my soul. To be known is so much greater than to be acquainted. I am known. I am known. I am known.
I’m so restless, so antsy in the winter that waiting is. But He knows. My Father knows and understands and His arms are open.
(Photo from Pinterest.)