The things we love reveal themselves to us.
But only if we allow ourselves to see them.
Like a valet waiting at an airport, they hold up little cards with our names on them, and smile when they see us. They grasp the handle of our suitcase and say “is this it? You travel light!” And we say I’m just not sure how I’m ever going to carry this by myself. Then, while they’re driving us to our destination and adjusting the air conditioner to make us more comfortable, we’re telling them I’m just not sure how I’m ever going to get out of this airport.
As they drop us off, they tip their hats and remind us they’re here for us anytime. And we wring our hands and say I just don’t know how I’m ever going to get where I am going.
For so many years I wrote and I wrote and I wrote the questions that plagued me: What should I do with my life? Where do my interests lie? Who even am I? All the while, it was writing that was rising to the occasion to help me get from one place to the next.
They were all trick questions, of sorts, because I thought interests had to be more specific, like fashion or basketball or baking cakes that look like everyday objects. I believed writing was only a medium I would use to explore my true passion, and couldn’t possibly be the passion itself. Heh.
So now that I’ve shown my hand (to myself), there’s no excuse not to play. To have no goal other than creating, no interest that my words must pursue. Just writing, for writing’s sake. Writing to create mystery, writing to create understanding.
There is value there.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, drop some oils into the diffuser, and watch those videos from the concert you’ve been too emotional to revisit. Remember what it was like to travel.