In recent months, the steady stream of stories and reflections that usually populate my corner of the internet at www.saintsandcigarettes.com has slowed to a trickle. This wasn't a case of writer's block or a loss of interest in the stories that have shaped my life. Instead, it was a deliberate step back into the shadows, a time to listen rather than speak, prompted by a confluence of personal health challenges and the introspective season of Orthodox Lent.
It was during this period of quietude that I found myself returning to a book that has long served as both a comfort and a challenge, “The Lenten Spring” by Thomas Hopko. I was particularly drawn to a chapter that seemed to echo my own internal debates: “The Tongue is a Fire.”
Thomas Hopko's insights in this chapter have lingered with me, shaping my thoughts and actions in ways I had not anticipated. He writes, “The point here is clear. It is not only evil and wicked words which are sinful. It is idle and empty words as well; words which may well be true but need not be spoken.” This reflection on the ethics of speech struck a chord, especially at a time when I've been wrestling with the decision of which stories to share and which to hold close.
My usual impulse to dissect and divulge the intricacies of my own narrative, particularly in the aftermath of a divorce that concluded a twenty-year marriage, was suddenly cast in a new light. The solitude enforced by my illness seemed to amplify the urge to reveal the more painful chapters of my life, to illuminate the struggles and scars in the hope of finding some shared understanding or catharsis.
Yet, Hopko's cautionary words, “The word is the human being's most prized possession... and the tongue is a fire. No human being can tame the tongue,” served as a stark reminder of the power and potential peril of our words. This Orthodox Lenten season, focused on introspection and the deliberate withholding of speech, challenges my innate desire to share, to connect through the vulnerability of personal storytelling.
The impulse to share our stories is a powerful one, driven by a multitude of factors: the search for validation, the hope of connecting with others on a profound level, and the belief in the cathartic power of storytelling.
Yet, the wisdom imparted by the Orthodox Lenten season and Hopko's reflections has introduced a counterpoint to these impulses. It suggests that silence, too, can be a form of storytelling, one that allows us to sit with our experiences, to understand them more deeply before choosing whether or not they need to be shared. It reminds us that not every story demands a public airing; some narratives may serve us better when they are allowed to mature in the quiet corners of our hearts.
As I navigated the solitary days of recovery, the words of Thomas Hopko served as a potent reminder, revealing the often-overlooked value of restraint in an era where sharing personal narratives has become almost instinctual. This Orthodox Lenten spring continues to be a period of growth— a time to learn the delicate art of discerning which stories to share and which to keep, understanding that the value of a story is not diminished by choosing not to share it publicly.
The challenge, then, is not in finding stories to tell but in deciding which stories need to be told and when. It's a process that requires patience, reflection, and a deep respect for the power of words. Coming out of this period of introspection, I'm more in tune with the subtleties of storytelling, more conscious of how the stories we share can touch both the writer and the audience.
To my readers, I extend my gratitude for your patience and understanding as I navigate this complex terrain. The journey I've undertaken—marked by illness, reflection, and the observance of Orthodox Lent—has reaffirmed the values that guide my storytelling. It has taught me that the act of sharing our stories is not just about the release of words into the world but about the mindful curation of the narratives we choose to share.
As I navigate this Orthodox Lenten spring, I am reminded of the growth that comes from reflection, from understanding the true value of our words, and from the peace that can be found in the quiet moments of our lives.
My stories, your stories, all our truths hold power. But the choice of when to share them, and how, is a sacred one, deserving of our utmost respect and care.
This journey of discovery, of learning when to speak and when to hold my tongue, has underscored that sometimes, the most compelling narratives are those that unfold in the quiet spaces between words, in the stories we choose to keep close, allowing them to shape us from within.
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