While occasionally people thank me for writing, the truth is that writing exists mostly as a compulsion for me. I think in terms of writing. I call it my "narrator voice." I reflect and think and dream in this narrator voice that is always communicating... perhaps merely to myself, but I feel the tug of my fingers toward the keyboard when the narrator voice is at its loudest or most passionate. I rather think it reflects an incredibly narcissistic side of myself, a side that actually believes others care or might benefit from hearing these reflections. Yet, I cannot turn off the narrator voice, and I feel compelled to put it on paper. Mind you, I do not always share the writings that result from this inner voice, but I have to write. And when this narrator voice is at its most prolific, even the small minority that gets shared with others adds up to a sizable amount.
Yet there are these other strange times, in which that voice suddenly turns off. In these times, suddenly as I walk through life, my thoughts make only silence. They do not string themselves together into words and paragraphs in my mind. To write is to struggle, and what I write frustrates me, for it is not coming from that place deep within where the narrator voice resides. It feels forced and for someone else, not out of my own desires or passion.
I tell you all of this, because I have not been writing for several weeks. I have not written any group e-mails. I've hardly written any individual e-mails. And I have not written any blog posts.
I apologize. To those of you who are so faithful to read all that I have to say, I am providing absolutely no further knowledge about life in the Shan village I love so much, and I am sorry for that. Moreover there's absolutely no reason for my silence. There's no bad news or good news that has overwhelmed me and thus silenced me. There's been no sickness or other strangeness. There's only been so very much of the ordinary beauty that I usually revel in and which inspires pages upon pages of contemplation on an ordinary day.
But my inner voice has become oddly quiet, as it will occasionally. Without it, I don't know how to stream words into sentences. Without that voice, my thoughts can only burrow deep, deep within me.
Perhaps I am coming out of it, as the ability to write this post may hint at. Still, if this is all I find myself able to write for now, I only hope you understand. I am trying. I want to tell you lots. I only need time to pull my voice back out of the folds of its hiding place. I simply do not wish to write you merely an "update" of life, factual without any heart. So please be patient and wait. In telling you even this, I am waking up my narrator voice again, and I will speak. The words will come. I want you to know about the place I care so much about. And I want to talk about all my hopes and fears and dreams when it comes to potential of peace in Burma. I want to tell you all these thoughts, but these thoughts do not exist in words yet. So know that I will write again soon. For now, all my love goes out to all of you who have been faithfully reading my words.
