It is a dangerous thing. An entirely too dangerous of a thing to tell a tale that has not yet written its final line. For who can ever know the place at which a story will end? None, save the Master Storyteller and He, I am surely not.
And it is nearing insanity to tell the tale of an unfinished telling in which you are the one not only doing the telling, but the one living the tale.
Insanely dangerous.
And yet, I do know that if I do not tell this tale, these tales, even knowing the grave danger, I may never tell another tale again.
For quite sometime I had settled into just not telling any tales, not this unfinished tale or any other for that matter. We can not all be story tellers, can we?
But, in that not telling of this unfinished tale I have found myself . . . lost. Simply and profoundly lost.
So while the telling is dangerous and I may find great peril along this telling path — I may also find my way again. Maybe.
I must risk the perilous path to find myself unlost.
Will you journey this perilous path with me? And may we find our way again. His way.
And it is nearing insanity to tell the tale of an unfinished telling in which you are the one not only doing the telling, but the one living the tale.
Insanely dangerous.
And yet, I do know that if I do not tell this tale, these tales, even knowing the grave danger, I may never tell another tale again.
For quite sometime I had settled into just not telling any tales, not this unfinished tale or any other for that matter. We can not all be story tellers, can we?
But, in that not telling of this unfinished tale I have found myself . . . lost. Simply and profoundly lost.
So while the telling is dangerous and I may find great peril along this telling path — I may also find my way again. Maybe.
I must risk the perilous path to find myself unlost.
Will you journey this perilous path with me? And may we find our way again. His way.
No comments:
Post a Comment