I’ve been rereading some of the things that I’ve written here, some ideas that I’ve scratched out into my journal, notes I’ve saved in my phone. I’m wondering over how much it has helped me to write out and share all of (okay, some of) the crazy that swirls around in my soul all day. I was looking back and was reminded how much I thought this writing was sort of a calling from God. Like the Creator wanted me to share pieces of my story with you, to somehow let shards of my spirit encourage or lift you up. I wasn’t really sure how He would use what I had to say, but I thought that He wanted me to spill it out here on to this page to help someone.
I think that I was right, but I know that I was wrong.
I’ve realized over these months of writing that it wasn’t really all for you that I was called to write. It is unlikely that I will ever write anything that will change your beliefs, or alter your opinion, or save you from yourself. I haven’t been writing just for you at all. No, it has primarily been for me. This writing, taking the time to scrawl together these words has been a selfish endeavor. It is true that I would like to earn a living as a writer, a year ago I could not have written those words out and then hit the “publish” button. I was stuck in this place of self-doubt, fear, anxiety. There was no way I could have written anything so scary out on paper and actually let people know.
While I still have a long way to go, this tiny blog here has been the opening of a door for me. I don’t know what I’ll write or if I can put the sentences together well enough that someone might actually one day pay me to sit here at this laptop and drench the page with my ramblings, but I am no longer afraid to give it a shot. I no longer let the fear of someone’s reply dictate what emotions I share and which I hold back. The anxiety doesn’t keep me from sending my thoughts out via this blog. Writing here has done that for me.
I feel that I’ve become a greater version of myself because I found the permission slip inside of myself to do so. I finally stopped asking someone else to give it to me. By allowing myself the time, albeit rather sporadically, to really contemplate my reactions, my feelings, my moods…I began to know a deeper version of myself than I had before. And in understanding myself better, I have been better able to share myself with each of you.
I suppose that what I am trying to say, is that while I set out to write something that was deeply meaningful to you, words that touched your heart, to express emotions that would flow across the page and speak into your very soul; I failed. Like all of the best things we do, the failing has taught me an important lesson. It taught me that to succeed at this writing gig, no one needs benefit but me. Sure, that would be an added bonus. The personal growth that has come from the expression itself has been enough.
It’s interesting to me how writing out my struggles, choosing the words carefully to convey how I feel, has caused me to understand a little more about myself; why I am this way, why I don’t always fit in, why I shouldn’t try to, why I shouldn’t give a f**k that I don’t. I am perfectly created and I do not doubt that. This gives me a freedom that I hadn’t known much of my life. The freedom to just be me, not apologizing, or begging for friendships, or praying for acceptance. To be me is a good thing and not something that I should avoid or really even worry about.
Now I am left to wonder what I should do with this information. Should I stop writing here? I mean, realistically how many more deep emotional breakthroughs am I going to have? I don’t want to be a mommy-blogger though I love my people fiercely.
or a food-blogger, though I love to eat and cook (though not in the summer) nearly as much as those people.
Perhaps one day I will write an amazing travel-blog, but that day is not this one.
I’ve struggled with this for a few days now, and- lucky you- I’ve decided that writing in itself is valuable enough to me to keep writing. Perhaps one day you will get sick of reading about how I relate gardening situations to life lessons. It is possible that you will tire of reading about how I am stressed by my children and then hearing about what I do with that stress. I can imagine that you may stop “liking” my posts as they become redundant or simply too similar to what you’ve read before.
The secret I now know, is that it doesn’t matter what you do, or think, or want from my writing. What matters, what will keep me coming back to sit with my ideas, is that it changes me. I alone am valuable enough to keep posting. The time I invest in writing is time invested in myself. I find that I offer most grace to the people in my life whom I love dearly, yet I extend very little of that same grace to myself. The internal voice shouts loud for attention and I mumble to it; “quiet down.”. Or at least, I always have. Beginning with this day, this post, this moment, I have decided to prioritize this need to write. Not seeing it as a use of my energy, but as building it back up.
Yesterday I posted a meme to my Facebook page. My sweet husband dropped a picture of our truck and camper underneath of it. I realized then that I do still have some things to work out. Some fears to overcome, some life-goals to reach. So, perhaps there is still reason to write after all. Perhaps you may even see a small piece of yourself in what I have to say, time will tell I suppose. For this day I trust that the grace I give myself in sneaking the time to write is all that needs come from the writing.
If you’re willing, I’d love to know if something I’ve written has spoken to you.