Happy Summer!
The pace is a bit slower for me in these days.
Some of it by choice and much of it, not.
As a teacher (I wear a lot of hats, and teaching teenagers is one of them), this is what we love about summer.
Allegedly, we have time to work on outdoor projects, to be at the beach, to read, to detox from the distracted and naughty student behaviors we’re dealing with all school year long.
This is when we’re going to do the bigger things that we don’t have the bandwidth for in February.
We have big notions.
We will paint the bedroom. We will re-read the Harry Potter series.
We will garden and hike and swim and finally laugh a little.
We will be present.
We will play catch in the backyard with the neighbor boy.
We will sit still by the campfire. We will stop worrying. We will calm down. We will watch fireflies.
We will sing.
We will get those 10,000 steps in.
We will clean the light fixtures, pull the old shrubs, plant the new ones, paint the kitchen cupboards, learn a new recipe.
We will get shit done, and we will feel great.
We will also play hard.
We deserve it.
We’re going to get six months of living squeezed into 10 weeks.
Or in my case, we will write.
We are going to “finish the book” this year, no excuses.
We have a whole summer , we think.
This empty house we’re somehow dealt can be the gift we’ve needed.
It’s kinda what we imagined when we were buried in ballet and homework and science projects and valentine parties. Gosh, that girl of ours grew up fast.
This summer will be the perfect time for the birthing of my dream, once and for all, I say to myself.
It is my turn.
And yet, time is so swift.
How did we get on this other side of the 4th of July and still not have the proposal done, or the basement cabinets sorted, or the garage shelves built?
There’s no way I was at Target yesterday and saw an endcap filled with school backpacks and “back to school” banners. How dare they?
Why do we have to rush everything?
Where are we going?
My goodness, what is my deal?
I’m without excuse.
Pull it together, I say.
Get things in balance, I demand.
Yes, time is marching forward but there’s still plenty of it left, if I’ll just take action… one tiny step after the next, and then a few bigger moves that I’m already primed for, and then voila… I’m celebrating that thing I wanted.
I analyze a little too much perhaps.
This posture can lock me in to crippling immobilization.
I end up totally wasting an hour and then an afternoon and before I know it, a whole weekend.
I’ve got big ideas, it’s not that.
I’m certainly not in want of a fresh take on a new thing to do.
Some people don’t dare dream.
They wouldn’t allow themselves the indulgence.
That isn’t me.
I just struggle so much with which thing to do next… What’s important and what can wait?
It’s not like I’m sitting around or napping… although those aren’t bad things.
I’m good at looking busy, I brag
I’m excellent at fooling myself that I’m being productive because I’ve emptied all the laundry baskets. There are no dirty dishes in the sink.
I’ve gone over all the mail. I’ve sent out my thank-you notes.
These are good things.
I’m not saying it’s wrong to fill my time knocking this stuff off the list, but for me… the one who calls myself a writer, a podcaster, a life coach, a visionary… I’m just hiding inside the security of these meaningless chores and calling it productive. These are things I can measure.
A vacuumed floor - with its neat rows and erect carpet threads - is real progress, I muse.
If I can see it, and therefore measure it quantifiably, it must matter.
This makes me significant.
And then I wonder why my book isn’t done, or my coaching and training practice isn’t flourishing.
I’m busy. That’s why. Busy with a whole lot of nothin’. But I justify it.
I’ve recently had to conclude: I sure am good at hiding inside daily household tasks instead of taking small actions toward my real work, my calling.
This has got to change, I warn.
Well, thank the good Lord for yet another start.
I re-opened my website TODAY, after having put an intentional pause on it for over a year.
It wasn’t generating engagement.
I wasn’t getting seen. It was costing me time and headspace.
Nothing pleasant was resulting. I heard writing and creating content was supposed to be fun.
This was far from that.
I was stressing over not updating it often enough, not coming up with clever comments on current events, not knowing what to say in moments of debilitating writer’s block… which is totally a thing.
I’ve taken sick days over it. FYI.
I’m deeming this a new day. I’ve done that a lot, I know.
Just go with me on this one. And thanks in advance for your patience.
I’m sitting on the sofa in my living room, cuddled in a cotton blanket on a rainy summer day, writing!
You read that right!
I’m drawing a blank on where the commas go, and how to think-up the most intelligent metaphors, and when to start a new paragraph… but then I realize how the world is full of writers who also aren’t perfect. Newsflash!
I’m committing again to releasing my own ridiculous perfection syndrome and just doing the work.
The grind, the rigor, the routine is what separates the doers from the talkers.
So, here I go.
If she can write , so can I.
If he can have a platform, amidst his humanity, so can I.
The file folders on my desktop of started books and half-written workshops are getting a makeover.
I’m throwing out, combining, sharing, and going again.
People who’ve started decades after me are published three times over by now.
I’m cleared up to celebrate them and releasing them to do their thing.
I’ll be over here doing my thing.
I find comfort in this…
I’m not late.
My story and my process are as they are. I can’t go back and change what has already happened.
Maybe my time just hadn’t come before… and now it’s here.
The present is all I can really face and the future is all I can impact.
The past is done. Praise God.
Frankly, I don’t want to go back.
I’m careful not to declare anything too big at this point, lest I fail myself and you again.
But really, this is the year.
This is the summer!
I might get the basement cabinets sorted and my bedroom painted, and these are important markers but not urgent. Mostly, I’m writing.
The other stuff can wait… again.
Writing is what’s mattered to me most all these years anyway.
That’s what I’ve been so good at, but so scared of.
No more.
I leave tomorrow for a writer’s conference where I’m presenting my book proposal and brand concept to a couple of literary agents and a publisher or two.
The stakes are high. Or at least, I make them that way.
It’s how I give myself the swift kick I need.
I’ve put in a lot of time and money into readying for this.
I’ve given me some serious lectures about due dates and what its going to take to meet them.
And now, it’s about keeping my word.
I’m finally, finally giving myself permission to be the writer; to write.
I’m joining the ranks of those who dare to do it.
And who knows, maybe within a few months, I’ll have a hard copy in my hands (and eventually in yours) which for me will be the partial proof that I was worthy enough.
That what I had to say was worth fighting for and that maybe it was worth hearing.
Your presence here means the world.
Stay with me.
It will be worth it.