" . . . 'Course he isn't safe . . . . ."

There are moments, even hours, when I ask myself if I'm not self-indulgent, absurd, and downright foolish for yearning to write, for desiring to communicate with the world at-large.  Writing then seems to be a potentially humiliating business, and I, "spilt milk." 

It seems, at such times, that the truly smart ones are those who sit back and let other people do the creative calisthenics, as in:  "Better you than me." 

This is an unpleasant thought which engenders an uneasy feeling.

I suppose it all comes down to how much I have invested in my own dignity, in being "smart," and in "playing it safe."  Writing decidedly does not feel "safe" in terms of "protecting the self."  It may not be terribly "smart," either.

Perhaps I am, after all, just a writing fool.  Although the implications of stupidity are alarming, being a writing fool, in itself, doesn't feel particularly bad.   My logic is simple:  The more I reach out, the more chance I have of meeting Jesus "on the way."

This I do not want to miss.  For what, or for when, might I be "reserving myself," otherwise?  The more alarming thing, to me, would be to treat myself as though I'm a pickle in a jar, awaiting optimal brining.

I'm not a pickle, and the time is now.

"Safe?"  said Mr. Beaver;  " . . . Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."  (C. S. Lewis: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)