I’m listening to my limits.
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My month-long break from Instagram stretched into three, and I’m tiptoeing back here after appreciating the quiet of living my life without putting language to it.
(As someone who loves words, this is a new concept.)
Perhaps not often said directly: for those of us who are authors, a part of our job and our responsibility to our publisher is communicating, here, in this space.
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While there are times that I certainly have thrived facing forward with the message I carry inside, and times where I have loved that part of my “job,” there are other seasons (like this one recently) where finding pithy, short words is like attempting to swim laps in the ocean deep.
So being true to a message I’ve carried deeply: listening to, and not raging against, my God-allowed limitations has meant … fewer words, here.
I haven’t yet had words that could fit in a tiny square for the parts of the tunnel of loss we’ve been walking through, so for now I’ll still poke my head up here — most often in stories … and with likely more pictures than words.
I’m still writing my way through this stretch – like an injured athlete carefully working muscles that have overcompensated or been underused, now — but mostly on Substack, which is a deeper dive for a smaller, self-selected audience.
(You can find the link for my substack in my profile.)
I’m listening to my limits.
These days, they are God’s megaphone to me.
