When Words Won’t Come

I haven’t posted in two weeks. An empty blogless stretch unmatched on this site since…never. It’s never happened; I always have something to say. Something to write.

I write about my life. My faith.

I write about struggle.

I write about my favorite music or my latest quirky observation of the world.

I write about made-up words.

And when I don’t write, I film stuff. Wander somewhere I’ve never trod and share my findings via video.

But lately, I’ve felt nothing. No inspiration to write, none to make videos, none to do much anything productive really.

It’s more than writer’s block; it’s life block. My whole life feels stopped right now. Like I’m trapped beneath the cork of a wine bottle. Drowning in my own doubt and indecision. 

I recently wrote about starting an email newsletter for this blog. To keep everyone up to date with my latest book idea. And while I’ve currently amassed 30,000 written words for said idea, the train has screeched to a halt on that glitzy expressway to self-publication.

As of today, I don’t know what’s happening with that idea anymore. But I’m so grateful for everyone who signed up for the newsletter. Rest assured, I will send out a newsletter someday. But will it be this week or next week? I don’t know. I really don’t.

Truthfully, it’s not like life sucks right now. Honestly, life couldn’t be more hopeful. In so many ways.

Regarding work and finances, I’ve added not one, not two, but nine students to my weekly tutoring schedule. Yes, nine, including three kids who share my same crazy last name. Amazing huh? I’ve never had this much work, and it’s actually quite refreshing. Rewarding.

For the first time since July, I’m now officially making more money than I’m forced to spend each month. Am still in crazy debt, but can finally envision my long climb into the lighted clear. You know. Someday.

But beyond the blessing of a balanced budget, I’ve finally found a critical stepping stone from my off-the-beaten-path living quarters of the last two months. A new living situation that will be not twenty minutes (plus sporadic psychotic LA traffic) from everywhere I go, but a mere five. Minus the sporadic psychotic traffic.

Five minutes away from everything. All my tutoring assignments. Church. Life group. Chick-fil-A.

Everything. I’m so relieved. So grateful. So undeniably ready to move to my new house in less than two weeks.

The blessings have been pouring in by the buckets. And yet my pail feels so empty. Void of passion. Passion for writing, yes. But passion for life.

I’m dry.

Lost.

Searching.

Wandering.

Wondering.

Wondering where on this planet I belong. I can’t shake Korea from my mind, and yet I desperately want to call somewhere like southern California my home for 50 years to come. To be rooted somewhere so intrinsically special, and yet to flee in a similarly special way. To see not only the country, but also the world.

Two beckonings, pulling me opposite directions. Leaving me worn and restless in the middle. I don’t know what to do with my life. Don’t understand my role on this planet and how that translates to the geographic location of where I lay my head each night.

Ever since camp ended, I’ve worn this blue bracelet. It has my Indian name etched into the rubber. The name now beautifully translated into my site’s banner by a dear friend.

Traveling Golden Trout.

I stare at my wrist often. I wonder what it means. What it really means.

Was it just a silly little name spoken over me by an elite band of Little Chiefs or does this name supernaturally possess some deeper meaning? Was this unique name given me simply because I drove 4,000 miles to reach this camp, or does Traveling Golden Trout signify something far more meaningful?

Am I meant to travel for merely a season, or will my traveling moniker encompass my entire life? My future destiny?

My lifelong calling?

Adam Stück (and his typewriter monkeys) recently wrote a fantastic post about the “wanderer-hero.” I read it with chills. Resonated with and resisted both sides of the wanderer’s complicating coin.

How I long to be like Gandalf or Doctor Who. A lost soul very much found in his purpose and calling.

And yet I want a home too. A wife. Kids. My own family. Friends. Dear friends.

Belonging.

When words won’t come, I sit on my air mattress till 3am and write a blog post where, ironically, words somehow come.

And yet I feel I’ve hardly scratched the surface of my recent apathy. So many words remain desperately hidden within my inner recesses. Trapped beneath a cork that just won’t pop.

The traveling golden trout. Currently not traveling.

I might as well be a fish tossed onto shore. Flopping aimlessly.