There are days when words just don’t come.  I’ve had a string of about twenty-one of them.  That nagging feeling of “I should write” playing tug-o-war with the futility of “I have nothing to say”—a constant pulling back and forth that most recently seems to end with me back in bed, covers askew and cats aplenty as I burrow deeper under both.  I do not like the constant pulling and tugging—the relentless tension in the line, the way each side digs in their feet and sets their weight in opposition to the other, the rope burns on my hands.  I despise the taunting and name-calling back and forth—the arrogant attempts to psych out the opponent.  I am weary from the life-sucking expenditure of energy it takes to just hold the line in place.

Today, I find myself tired of this child’s game.

Today, I finally drop the rope and I write.

And even if I only manage to write about the not writing, I have still succeeded.  I have walked away from the power struggle—from the determination to dominate by sheer brute force. I have walked away from the strain on my spirit created by my own two grasping hands. I have walked away from the fear-driven desperation to pull-pull-pull-pull-pull!

I have walked away from the mud puddle and into the sanctuary—and even if the words don’t make sense, they are words on the page, nonetheless, and I am victorious.

I am not defeated by the gray skies and the cold wind that blows too early.

I am not defeated by the endless battle to silence the screaming pain in my head.

I am not defeated by the weight that clings to my midsection for dear life, refusing to let go.

I am not defeated by the fog of depression that obscures any ability to see my way clear.

I am not defeated by my infuriating inability to bring much-needed healing to my daughter’s back-breaking pain.

I am not defeated by the hands on the clock, always circling ’round faster than I can keep up.

I am not defeated by my tendency to insulate by isolating from intimacy.

I am not defeated by the hopelessness and despair hanging around my neck like a millstone—a permanent accessory—weighing me down, down, down with its sheer mass.

I am not defeated by an enemy who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour—seeing in me a hearty afternoon snack.

I am not defeated—not when I choose to name the oppressors with words on a page like light shining into the darkness, dispersing the shadows and exposing the true size and stature of my opposition.

I am not defeated when I lay down the rope and I pick up the pen and I pray on paper and God meets me in the middle of the mess and all that clamors for attention in my head is quieted for but a moment and I find peace.

When I drop the rope and I pick up the pen, I win.

It may not be pretty.

It may not be pleasant.

But it is a victory, nonetheless.

I re-tally the score, and I rub ointment on my hands, healing their sting.

I have won today, but I may need to be prepared to pull hard again tomorrow.