Real Fears
Every once in a while, I get a little introspective. Today happens to be one of those days. I sit here, mostly at home, trying to piece together an exam, and the paper doesn't materialize. I try heading to a coffee shop, and I find myself surfing the web. I realize, with some regret, that my heart just doesn't belong to teaching right now, and I have 15 more weeks to pretend that it does. Sigh. I say that in jest. I don't expect you to feel sorry for me at all. I get it that I'm at another point in my life where I have the opportunity to choose to do what I want. Don't get me wrong, I feel blessed that I can choose. It's just a hard place to be, if you ask me.
And I almost always have a choice, don't I? Even though I do consider myself lucky, any time I get to these stages of life, where a choice is presented, or I need to really do some thinking about my life, I want to crawl back to my waiting place. What is the waiting place? For me, it is the the buffered mountainside, the comfort zone, or simply, the existing state. It is there that I can sit without really living, going about my business because I have to, but not truly enjoying what I am doing. Sometimes, that waiting place is fraught with anxiety, or I might experience plenty of emotions without really feeling any of them at all. But the place is warm and comfortable. Things could be better or worse, but at least I know and understand all that rests inside the boundaries of the waiting place.
It might be fear that keeps me inside, it might be laziness. If I don't think about what it is, I don't have to define what actually tethers me to the spot.
I think I might have been sitting safely inside this comfort zone, this waiting place, when I got the writing bug. I thought I had a haven that could not be disrupted; I had so many things to do, with the kids, with school, at home. I was so, so wrong. It doesn't matter whether I want something to happen; who am I to think I have control? And so I quickly recognized that a slight change had occurred, despite the fact that I hadn't sanctioned it. This happens in life, so often in fact, you'd think I'd be ready for them when they come along. I'm not though, and I tend to get impatient when fault lines open up.
So the question that needs to be asked, is what to do about it? Do I take the plunge and immerse myself in the soothing waters of writing? And if I do, will that be enough? What if I get to the point where I actually publish something? Will that be the end of it? An item that can be checked off of my bucket list, begging to be replaced by yet another goal to reach? Or will I try to make writing something permanent in my life, loving it enough that even though it might change its hair color or pierce its nose, the body it was born with still exists?
I don't know, and not knowing, about anything, is probably the most real fear that I have.
And I almost always have a choice, don't I? Even though I do consider myself lucky, any time I get to these stages of life, where a choice is presented, or I need to really do some thinking about my life, I want to crawl back to my waiting place. What is the waiting place? For me, it is the the buffered mountainside, the comfort zone, or simply, the existing state. It is there that I can sit without really living, going about my business because I have to, but not truly enjoying what I am doing. Sometimes, that waiting place is fraught with anxiety, or I might experience plenty of emotions without really feeling any of them at all. But the place is warm and comfortable. Things could be better or worse, but at least I know and understand all that rests inside the boundaries of the waiting place.
It might be fear that keeps me inside, it might be laziness. If I don't think about what it is, I don't have to define what actually tethers me to the spot.
I think I might have been sitting safely inside this comfort zone, this waiting place, when I got the writing bug. I thought I had a haven that could not be disrupted; I had so many things to do, with the kids, with school, at home. I was so, so wrong. It doesn't matter whether I want something to happen; who am I to think I have control? And so I quickly recognized that a slight change had occurred, despite the fact that I hadn't sanctioned it. This happens in life, so often in fact, you'd think I'd be ready for them when they come along. I'm not though, and I tend to get impatient when fault lines open up.
So the question that needs to be asked, is what to do about it? Do I take the plunge and immerse myself in the soothing waters of writing? And if I do, will that be enough? What if I get to the point where I actually publish something? Will that be the end of it? An item that can be checked off of my bucket list, begging to be replaced by yet another goal to reach? Or will I try to make writing something permanent in my life, loving it enough that even though it might change its hair color or pierce its nose, the body it was born with still exists?
I don't know, and not knowing, about anything, is probably the most real fear that I have.
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