It strikes me, even as I type this, how distant our formulaic methodology is from the artful narrative of writing. It makes you wonder whether we can even get to the truth. It makes you wonder if all our time spent making lists would be better spent painting or writing or singing or learning to speak stories. When I think of this, I think of organized religions and the church comes to mind.Sometimes I feel as though the church has a kind of pity for Scripture, always having to come behind it and explain everything, put everything into actionable steps, acronyms, and hidden secrets.
My life is a story. I feel this blood slipping through my veins and these chemicals in my brain telling me I am hungry or lonely, sad or angry, in love or despondent. And I don't feel that a list could ever explain the complexity of all this beauty, all this sun and moon, this smell of all this sudden rain, the beautiful mysteries of women, of giving birth, of loving men and their truck-like complexities.. It seems nearly heresy to explain the gospel of anyone - to anyone-, the messages are infinitely complex, delivered to an infinitely complex humanity, in bullet points.
