by David Thompson
Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And, I would add, not worth writing about either. If I don’t reflect, I don’t write. I don’t reflect because I’m busy. I’m busy because it makes me feel important, as if my absence would be noticed if only because stuff didn’t get done. It’s not a great life, but most people live it, so it doesn’t seem so strange.
Without reflection I live as something less than a human being – I live as a human doer, a man defined by the sum of his roles. My soul screams, “No! As one made in the image of God, I am!” To which I may tell myself I need to have a quiet time when life slows down.
Or I may stop for a moment and hear the living Word speak love, faith, and hope into my life. Sometimes the Word is so stunning, so surprising, it’s difficult to put into words. An attempt is made, but the representation so poor, it is quickly abandoned, only to be retained in the heart.
And sometimes I write. I write to understand. I write to hope, to grieve, to laugh, to confess. And sometimes I print. Not sure why I do that.
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