When people ask me what I do, I want to say I'm a writer.

The problem is, I can’t finish a thought.

I have been involved a torrid affair with writing since I started my first blog almost 15 years ago. I have never been able to be consistent enough to materialize into a career, or even a steady hobby. I am not convinced that I have to make this anything. My goal is just to simply begin again.

I used to write here about the version of Christianity with which I was involved. It dictated how I saw the world, until I broke it open. Like when Jasmine breaks the trace that Jafar's staff induced.

Breaking open a previous worldview is intense. Almost every relationship in my life was created through the pretense of Christianity. It has taken me a few years, mental collapse and rebuild and a cross country move to receive the perspective I have been searching for.  

I have finally allowed myself, after 33 years, to pursue me. This involves attempting to decode the thoughts in my head out of my body and into another medium, whether it be print, type or another form. It involves attempting to make sense of my experiences and translate them into a shared connection with others. It involves giving myself permission to put my three beautiful children into the care of others Monday through Friday so I can have the space to make this attempt. 

It's giving myself permission to occupy space. To use my voice. To have an opinion. 

To carve out my individuality within the sea of individuals.

To wonder. To dream. To create. 

To allow myself to be fully human.

Things I have denied myself for most of my life. 

I tell my children they can be anything they want.

So you know what?

I am a writer.

I originally thought of Garden Theology back in my Evangelical days, thinking about returning to the Garden of Eden and creation's relationship with God. I realize now literally, gardening and theology are what have built me. The two foundational aspects of me. The two components of my being that light me up more than anything. 

My mother and grandmothers were all gardeners or growers throughout my childhood. My earliest memories are pouring out of the car after a long drive to my Mamaw and Papaw's and running straight to their broccoli patch, trying to eat the crunchy stalks before my Mamaw could inspect for any stowaway bugs. My siblings and I played for hours in her garden, which took up most of the front yard, incorporating rocks which my Papaw collected, a beautiful flowering crabapple tree we always were trying to eat or feed to various animals, and beautiful flowers. I remember my mom and Mamaw sitting for hours planning out the landscaping when we were building our house that we stayed in for 19 years, and I went on to buy. 

I remember my parents and grandparents working out in the garden most weekends. Wheelbarrows and transplanting and a combination of growing food and growing plants. I never took much interest in helping, except when we were commissioned to help pull weeds. I always knew who to ask when I had a plant question and I asked them often. 

I have equally as many memories of theology. Growing up in a tiny church of 30ish afforded me opportunities to experience a beautiful type of community I have not seen since. An intergenerational group, mostly of family members, sharing meals, washing feet, singing and debating (arguing) over interpretations of God, people and life. I heard different theologies as we moved on to bigger churches, each more damaging than the last. I sought to break open the rigid box of a God that I had been given. I tried to stay within the existing system of Christianity I knew until 2020, when the world was given permission to take some space. 

It all fell apart for me. The idea that the Creator of the Earth asks us to abide by these exclusive, restrictive rules, disconnected from ourselves and the Earth in a lot of cases, who sends people who happen to claim belief in the system even if their actions don't line up at all - to heaven and others to hell?

I know I sound cynical. I am on a lot of days. But on other days I have hope. Hope for humanity that we'll wake up out of our divisive, digital induced stupor and enter into interconnectedness again. It will require a return. Hence Garden Theology. 

I've been so stuck inside my head for so long. Debating how to share everything I've been processing over the past few years as I've let myself out of the box of restrictive belief. I see so much good outside of it. Not to say everything in the system is bad, but so limiting. I've been focusing on expanding. There is so much freedom. True freedom. Not fear. Not exclusion or privilege. Just discovery. 

 

the bravest thing one can do is lay down one's life for another.

what is even braver, and arguably more difficult, is to pick one's life back up again.

to rebuild. to restart. to reclaim.

some seasons of life demand our full attention. 

our full selves.

and then an inch more.

there are many ways to cope with this loss.

denial. shame. guilt. mourning. blame. numbing.

 full immersion. 

I say loss and I do mean loss.

you do lose yourself when you lay yourself down.

what was, what could've been. 

the beautiful truth is,

what is picked back up is not the same.

we are not the same. 

our cells have turned over. 

we have wisdom and new experience.

walls to add to our foundation of who we once were.

mourn what was.

be joyful with what is.

hope for what can be.

 

The walk down memory lane can be painful.

I cringe at the items I once held in my basket.

I am too hard on myself.

What if I looked back with compassion?

With understanding?

We only know what we know.

Those who aren't taught to think, follow.

Waking up to our own power is uncomfortable. 

It goes by another name. 

Privilege. 

Unlearning is our own work to do.

Taking out the parts that don't work anymore. 

Thanking them for their service. Thanking our selves. 

Acknowledging where they've caused pain and tossing them to fire. 

Confidence is hard to find when you've gaslit yourself your whole life. Confidence to tell your truth, holding your story hidden just beneath the surface. Bravery is required to share your thoughts and experiences. I've held mine close to my chest. Judging from the comment sections on various online platforms, some people have no problem negating experiences that aren't theirs. 

Nevertheless, we don't owe each other anything but our truth. 

Sure, gatekeeping certain experiences is wise. Boundaries are good. Not everyone is trustworthy enough to hold our deepest pain. But in sharing, we allow others find their own truths, the ones we purposely bury within ourselves. 

When we share our stories, people are invited to share theirs. We are able to see each other more clearly. More fully. 

Much of history has been told without a world of people commenting and weighing in. This has had its pros and cons of course. Certain stories were purposely not shared or given space to be heard. Whole perspectives shut out and quite literally erased. But the truth has a way of finding its way out. 

Not a truth that adheres to any one group's standards. Not one that benefits any group over another. The one that is authentically yours. That others inevitably share. The truth that sets collective people groups free from the worst lies. "You don't matter", "no one sees you", "you are alone". 

The beauty of sharing is in the liberation it provides us. Our neighbors. Our fellow humans. It's a daunting but worthy cause. To share is to be seen. Maybe not by all, certainly not by those who can't allow their own humanity to be seen. The connection our stories give us to each other is the most potent form of confidence that exists. It's available to each of us, if we'll be a little brave. 

"The table seats so many", we've often been told. 

 Expansion awaits our willingness to see.

Frauds fill seats created for all. 

Exclusion, exceptions, exhaustion.

Beings are meant to be, together. 

Masks aren't welcome here.

Put your fear aside,

claim your place.

It's your birthright. 

I am an avid story connoisseur. As most self-described writers are. What I have more trouble with is story telling. Disjointed thoughts and experiences tumble around in my brain. My hands have trouble connecting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). 

Imagine your brain is a train station. Mine isn't very orderly. Tracks lead every which way. Destinations seemingly go nowhere. Routes aren't direct. 

Like most worthy endeavors in life, writing requires practice. Expectation and pressure only complicate any situation. So here I am. Showing up and practicing.