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Perchance, to Dream

August 2, 2019

I am super duper good at starting things. I have (roughly) a million ideas swarming around in my mind at any given time, ideas for how to live, how to teach, how to be a good wife/friend/daughter/mom, where to travel, what to eat, what to be, how to parent, etc. I've dabbled in different hobbies/wannabe professions (photographer, children's book writer, Blogger Extraordinaire, to name a few) and my days are happiest when there is a thing to do. Preferably, a conversation to have, a cup of coffee to drink, an exchange of ideas to develop.

 

And then I like to crawl in bed and sleep.

 

I find that I am very good, nay, enthusiastic about starting things, and rather terrible at finishing them. It may be that I simply bask in the euphoria of the honeymoon stage, riding a wave of newness adrenaline until it crashes awkwardly into the shores of reality. Or maybe I'm lazy? And yet I've been married for fourteen years, I run fairly consistently, and my love of coffee has yet to wane. So there must be some hidden tenacity in there SOMEWHERE. And, at times, it shows itself in its most truest and wonderful forms. Marathon training that one time. Homeschooling again this year. Relationships that require work (they all do!). Unfortunately, what often accompanies the randomness of the ideas buzzing my brain is an itty-bitty sense of dread and worry.

 

I've been a worrier since I was in the first grade. Precisely. I had the most dedicated, sweet, and soft-spoken teacher (I'm looking at you, Mrs. Banks), and yet I worried about first grade EVERY DAY. And that was my word usage: I'm worried. I would sob as my Mom would drop me off (ugh, sorry, Mom) and beg and plead for her not to leave me because "I'M WORRRIEEEDDDD." 

 

About what? I had no idea.

 

And so, that bit of worry has accompanied me through my entire life. Confession: On the happiest day of my life, the day I married my best friend, we drove off into the sunset ... and I burst into tears because I was "worried" about getting a job in a new town. True story. I'm in my gown, tears streaming down my face accompanied by super sexy sobbing, while he, in his tux, is probably wondering who in the world is this basket case to whom he has just pledged his life (trust me, he already knew, ha). I mean, to be fair, the wedding day is oft emotional, so I'll cut myself a little slack. And I was in my early twenties which for me was basically like seventeen. But still. You get the point.

 

And I can look back on so many (most) of the joyous milestone moments in my life that have been made murky by the bit of worry in the back of my head that causes me to doubt myself, which in a really big, drawn-out, roundabout way, brings me to typing this blog post. I really love writing. I do. And I want to write things. But I don't even know what I want to write. And the worry wart popping up on my brain is telling me, "You are so good at starting things ... but you won't finish, so why try?" Isn't it crazy how the Bible tells us over and over again to not worry, and yet we kind of view it as this "permissible" sin, because it shows "caution" and "concern" (quotes because I've said those things)? But you know what? It's a lie. Concern can be handled with confidence. And caution can still look to the end goal with joy, just smartly. I just want to write. So maybe the best thing to do is to start here. To just start writing. About ... stuff. That's the goal.

 

And if I stop, it's probably for a good reason. Like, life. But I want to keep writing. And maybe it will all come together....or maybe not. But, at least I'll be writing. I'm wired to write.

 

I mean, I won "Best Creative Writer" in the sixth grade, so it's basically my calling. 

 

Have a lovely day.

 

 

 

 

 

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