I have been journaling for over a year now. The journal is titled, "Letters to You," and it is a book I will give to this man who is brave to step into our chaos, courageous to love our mess. I write with one anonymous man in mind.
Sometimes I think I should scrap the whole thing, that all of this is too painful to write when I ache too deeply to lift my pen.
Sometimes I think I should start over in a new book, and this time I will write in poetic phrases, in metaphors that cannot be pinned down, in words that will protect my heart, rather than pouring out the specific dreams, the careful words, the pure rawness of my heart.
He is not yet here to catch them, so to write them yet feels something like tossing a treasure over a cliff, hoping it lands safely.
Even as I write this, there is one person, a specific, real person with a name and a face and a very broken heart, who is perhaps reading this and thinking, "I was willing, Tricia. I would have stepped into your family. I would have loved your mess. I offered, I asked you, and you know I did, again and again."
But it wasn't fair for me to keep him waiting, a loose leash around his wrist, when I know that I know that I know I am destined for someone else.
Even though that sentence contained such certainty ("I know", et al.), still today I am lonely and waiting and ready.
