From the Heart to the Hand

She picked up the pen and wrote falteringly, the ink stubbornly resisting spilling out. Pressing circles deep into the page, wrist flicking the pen, it felt like a stammer, like a tongue that wouldn't speak, like another silencing of her voice. She sighed, forming the curves again, but this time the ink slowly moved, haltering, not fluid yet, but a hope, a sign that she would get the words out.

Draw, flick, write; the cadence of her words was slow but she had begun. It was the trickle, the forging of a new way that would make a path for all her words to pass through.

There was hope even in this, in this stop, start affair between the hand and the heart. There was hope because even the faulty instrument could not stop what was happening. She was singing again and she knew it. She was finding that voice, the voice that had been lost in the constant noise, dimmed by broken dreams, silenced by a shattering of her heart. The hum of her heartbeat was stronger now, the chorus almost erupting on the inside of her. She could taste the freedom in this. In all the clamor of the world she knew that there was One who was hearing her and she knew that her voice mattered.


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