Thirty-Six

I had a map, and I still got lost.

I had a map, and I still got lost. At thirty-freakin’-five. Well, as of today, thirty-damn-six. I’m 36 and still trying to figure out just where I’m going. And yet I wonder if I’ve truly been lost, or if my aching has come from knowing my true creative goals and purpose and not pursuing them with all my heart and energy.

I never expected to have “arrived” anywhere by now. In fact, I don’t expect to have fully arrived anywhere aside from being comfortable in my own skin, in this entire lifetime. But I do hope to feel I’m pointing in the right direction. I am tired of feeling all turned around; as if I ‘took a wrong turn back there somewhere’, ya know?

I want to be free from, so that I may be free to. “You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.” I learned that from Toni Morrison the first time I read Song of Solomon more than 15 years ago. The shit that’s been holding me down has been my own fear. For me, fear shows up in small ways like procrastination, avoidance, the adoption of new hobbies, and a full agenda. Typically, I’d do anything to look away from the thing that frightens me; if I could circumvent conversations with my mom or bestie where they ask if I’m going to finish my book, I would.

I want to be free from, so that I may be free to.

Recently, when my mom asked if I was going to finish a nearly 10 year old manuscript that I’d started while in grad school, I didn’t feel angst or embarrassment. While I did have to let her know she might not ever find out what happens to the protagonist in that partially-written novel, I was able to give her and update on other projects that I’m working on. I felt good and inspired to keep going.

Our conversation reminded me of a time when I was about nine years old and I entered a short-story contest. My story was about two young sisters who were traveling to New York City on the train for the first time. My mother  took me to the the local Amtrak station so I could people watch for a while. I drew a picture of a train and decided to enter the illustration portion of the contest, too. Ironically, I won for my picture, but not my story. I always wanted to write and create and I did so without hesitation. I remember both my parents saying to teachers and friends, so matter-of-factly: “my daughter's a writer.” Just like that. They saw it in me and they knew who I was. I don’t know when I started to doubt my identity. It wasn’t all at once, but I allowed life’s disappointments to rob me of my certainty. I’m not going to pretend to have all my magic back and in tact, but I am certainly in a much better creative space.

As I reflect, I’d say that 35 was indeed a  wonder year. I received direction and purpose. I end the year with celebration and I open #36 with gratitude, because I already know it’s going to deliver.