I used to be a writer. Not as a real job that paid the bills, but I had that artist’s soul. I was stirred to put things on paper and in white boxes on the internet. I couldn’t stop it. Words poured from me like a broken tap. There was no way to turn it off so I wrote. I wrote about life, love, home, family, friends, sunny days, the rain, and pretty much anything else that was going on around me. I had words for all of it. Beautiful, meaningful, savory words. Some of those words were shared hither and yon, but many of them were just mine. The writing wasn’t necessarily great, but it didn’t matter. I was moved to write, so I did. And then something happened. The tap slowed to a trickle. Every once in a while there would be good, clear water, but most of what came out was murky and brown. The sun would shine and I would say, the sun is shining. Clouds rolled in, and all I could say was that it was cloudy. I couldn’t find the words to describe it. And one day, the tap just dried up. Even beautiful, sunny days brought me no words. Major life events, while celebrated, were told about in plain ol’ regular words. I felt no words. I wanted to write, but I had nothing to say. I came here time and again with the idea that if I just started to write, something would happen. And it didn’t. And when I did have something to say, it didn’t sound right after I said it. Sometimes I put the words here, but most of the time they were saved in drafts and then deleted after many attempts to edit them into some sort of meaning. Finally, I just gave up trying. I put down my pen, closed the text boxes, and just lived. The living was good, but it was lacking. I wasn’t depressed, but I hated that the thing that I loved so much was now lost to me. People made comments about my lack of writing. They knew how much words meant to me. They wondered if I was ok. I was. I just couldn’t make words make sense anymore. And I was busy. I filled my life with other things and moved on. Every once in a while I’d come here and write down some drivel and hit the publish button. And every once in a while I’d look back at what I’d written before the drought, and I would start to feel that lump form in my throat over the death of my words. I tried to stir my artist’s soul by listening to music since it had always been my muse, but the words just made me sad. Sad for what had been and what I didn’t have anymore. So I stopped listening. I thought about taking pictures since that had also been a love of mine, but the pictures came out dull, blurry and without meaning. I didn’t have the heart for trying anymore. I packed the camera away, and I continued to fill my life with other things. Normal things. Church, work, home. That was pretty much how it went. Except church wasn’t always a constant. It was something else that just reminded me of where I had been and how far away from that place I was. I searched my soul and found solace with God. At least he hadn’t left me. I prayed and had to be content to just be without the words. All I could do was continue to trudge along the path. Over hill and dale, across deserts, and through the mire. Me and God. God and me. It was hard but good. A brutal but necessary thing. And wonder of wonders, after a long time the path is getting easier, music is celebrated again, and I am starting to see the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. But what has aroused me most is that I am hearing words to describe the sun. For the first time in a long time, I feel words. They are here. They are here!