I am finding myself not doing some of the things I love, “Because I’m too busy!” Am I really so busy that I cannot do the things that give me the most pleasure? Is cleaning the living room or planning the next gathering really so important that I am missing life? I ask that because I was aware of it more over this past holiday season than I have ever been before.
I have lists! Long lists! Every single day there’s a new list. Some things on the list have been there for a week even. I have things I am required to do, things I am asked to do, things I love to do, things that just need doing because there is no one else to assign it to, and then the things I long to do if I can ever find time. Writing is generally on that “if I can find time” list.
Writing. The thing that has made me feel most connected to life is on the “hopefully someday I’ll have time” list. Not the “important to do every day” list like brushing teeth and showering. Not even on the needs to do list. I can’t remember a time where writing wasn’t a part of my core person. I wrote songs before I could spell the words I used and with tears streaming down my face I would sing them alone to the world that treated me so poorly. They were my compassion. They were my therapy. They were my life. Later, a journal, a best friend who loved me no matter what. I wrote out all the things that I felt, I allowed myself to feel and process and believe in a happily ever after. Then, as I healed from my own words, and read the words of others, I wrote stories. It was more than writing stories. I dreamed them, I thought of them, I created them in every single moment of the day. I was born to write. Yet, I lack the belief in my words to allow them a special place of honor in my daily world.
Now a new year has come and with it a 500 words a day challenge. I accepted it and found myself creating time for it, allowing it a place of honor every single day. I opened my life up to believe in the words again, allowing them to flow as they may. Surprised at how some of them formed thoughts that perhaps my deepest soul was telling me to listen to. I remember today who I am. I am a storyteller. I am a writer. Good or bad, sad or happy, true or make belief, these are my words. Words that only I will ever write. These are the words that make me who I am and finally, because of a challenge, I am brave enough to share them with whomever chooses to read them. Do I care what you think? Yes, of course, you are important. But will your belief in my words change them or cause me to silence them once again? No, because these words are me. And I am never going to be so busy again to deny myself the opportunity to be me.