I miss this space. I miss opening up my chest, and showing you my darkest places. I miss our 3 a.m. rendezvous as I poured myself onto my keyboard. I think of you often, and my thoughts usually trail away with some day I’ll go back.
Three years ago, when I wrote my first post, I had no plans for this place, and since I pretty much quit everything I’ve ever started, I figured I’d quit blogging too, so I told myself, I’ll write until I quit. You know, I like to keep high expectations for myself. So, I wrote, mostly the hard stuff, and I discovered home in this space; not an Alfred Hitchcock version of home, but gooey brownies in the oven, hot cocoa, and snuggles around the fireplace kind of home. I loved coming here, and I never wanted to leave.
Then, something happened. After two years of writing nearly every week, I couldn’t think of anything to write. I suddenly didn’t have a story to tell. I mean I did have a story, a journey, but out of nowhere it was my personal journey that begged to stay private. My blooming heart became a secret garden, a cherished hideaway for Love. I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me. Why was it suddenly so difficult to share my story, when sharing all the hard stuff had been so easy.
That’s when I discovered, after several years of pursuing Love, I wasn’t broken anymore. I didn’t feel pain when someone poked a finger into my heart. My damaged soul had healed, and I could feel power rushing through my veins. I didn’t identify with wounded anymore, I was me, alive and well. It excited me to think that now my story was no longer the story of healing, but rather I could share the story of wholeness. That’s when I changed my blog name from The Wounded Dove to Charity Craig. I was ready to write about this new leg of my journey.
Nope. Nothing. Every time I sat down to write, the words came out cracked and dry.
I didn’t want to close the doors to my heart, I wasn’t ready to stop talking about all the wonders I discovered, and yet my muse of inspiration had already packed her bags and moved to Tucson or Bali or wherever she decided to disappear to. Well, I didn’t need her anyway. I wasn’t about to quit. So, I joined writing challenges. I broadened my writing topics. I allowed myself to just shoot the breeze and not write every post about the interior of the human heart. I tried so hard to hang on, to write, yet, the harder I tried, the more the words turned to vapor, the more my locked garden refused to open. I could feel my home slipping away from me, and I was terrified.
I remembered something my counselor told me in the middle of my mess, “Charity, be careful not to wrap your identity in Matt’s affair.” At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. In fact, it sounded kind of stupid. Who in their right mind would ever wrap their identity up in something so painful as this? Yet, here I was, complete wrapped up in the mess of my past. Without realizing it, I began to identify myself with the wounded chapter of our life, it gave me purpose, a reason. I had wrapped myself around the girl who survived an affair. I was The Wounded Dove. I had taken the broken pieces of life, wove them into my hair, and called it me.
I knew I wasn’t the sum of my parts. My DNA is made in the image of Love. I am in Love and Love is within me, except I wasn’t practicing this truth. It’s in this moment I knew I had to let go of this space. Well, it was more like accepting that this space was letting go of me.
Over the past year, I started a Disney blog with Matt, we moved our family to Orlando, Florida, started a Disney inspired jewelry business, and day after day I’ve practiced being Charity, just Charity. And it’s felt good.
At 3 a.m. this morning, my eyes popped open. After an hour of tossing around my bed, I shuffled into our living room for some yoga stretching. It was in the middle of my cat cow when I heard the sheepish knock of inspiration. I curled up on the couch to see if she was really back or just a passing tease. As the words began to flow through my mind, I grabbed my laptop and made a pot of coffee. Sitting in the darkness, my muse and I, working together felt like old times. It makes my heart pump a little faster coming back here with you.
So, where do we go from here? What does this mean for us? Am I back for good?
I don’t know, and I’m not going to try and figure it out — high expectations, remember? So, maybe this is the beginning of a new chapter here, or maybe it’s just a reminiscent of our time together.
Either way, I am still accepted, and I am still loved, and it feels great to be back.