Inside the Fog

On self-doubt and following God's call

Today is not the day for me to write anything about my work. Self-doubt and uncertainty are at the wheel, and they color all my best wishes for what should be.

I went to a poetry open mic last night, and I am always so glad to be there, and sometimes I am so in awe of the work of poets around me that I feel like a fraud. Last night was one of those nights.

In reality, I am a simple woman with words to say. I am large, tall and loud, with many words, and I take up space that sometimes feels too big. I am a product of my experiences, my parents’ lives and my own. My writing pours from the many holes in my heart where it overflows, or was wounded—and some days the pain of those wounds return in larger memory. Artists have low days. Today is one of those days for me. I’m in a fog.

In high school, I went on a group camping trip. I don’t know where because at the time I didn’t pay attention to such things. It was likely somewhere in Western NC. We built camp in a forested place with a flat, earthen floor. I don’t recall any undergrowth at all, which even now strikes me as unusual for this area. And on the second day of the trip, we went on a hike that took us up to a mountain ridge. It was overcast, and as we stepped closer to the clouds, they broke upon us, soaking us through until we had fully climbed inside of them. We walked in what felt like another world along a very narrow, clear path through tall grasses along the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. None of us could see more than a few feet in front of us. I did not know where we were going. I do not know where we were. (I sometimes wonder if I dreamt the whole thing.) But I could see the path right in front of me and the back of the person ahead.

I find myself in a similar space these days, though one significantly less pleasant. The intangibility of life’s path lends less beauty to its uncertainty. And the absence of a physical cloud leaves my foggy thoughts without either air or comfort. I also lack the certainty of a campsite below the clouds where I know I will return. Onward is all I know: the path lit just at my feet and the Person ahead, leading the way.

My poetry is a crystallization of myriad observations. It seeks to honor God in all of the realities of the world, seen and unseen. And it seeks to truly see with eyes of faith that where I am is worth being, no matter how foggy, if only He is with me.

This is why I write. Discovering His Spirit through linguistics and semantics and ideation as I attempt to organize them on a page somehow invites Him in with me. In the spaces between the words, He reminds me of the truth: He has called. He is leading. He brings beauty even in the fog.

I have often wished I could return to that spot in the cloudy heights, enveloped in thick atmosphere—it was a spiritual place. And so is this one today: self-doubt and uncertainty rain upon me and even if I climb above them, I find myself in an unclear height with no vantage point for orientation. But I can know for sure that there is a path before me and that following Him will be worth the walk. He is leading me to a certain future beyond my current uncertainty.