Part of my nighttime ritual involves filling my mind with Instagram images. It relaxes me, it inspires me and connects me to new worlds. Through the rabbit trails of Instagram I chanced upon a young woman's blog. The way in which she wrote made it impossible for me to stop clicking on the small glowing titles on my phone's screen. The content was common-parenting posts, recipe ideas-but how she wrote captured me.
The more I devoured her every word the more I found myself aching to be gifted in crafting words. I tried to study her style. The way she wrote I didn't know was allowed with words, grammar and sentences.
Words, written words, always make me feel limited. I fear being grammatically incorrect (and believe me I know that time and time again I am). My high school English teacher had many words with me about my confusion with grammer. I blame it on being bumped up to advance placement at odd times that somehow made me leap frog past the basics, but in truth it probably is my lack of interest in the rules and structure of something so personal as writing. How can a creative outlet have rules? It defeats the very purpose of it right? (English majors everywhere are shouting NO NO NO-and I believe you) I think this insecurity with form caused me to fall in love with poetry's unstructured nature. I felt the freedom to say what I wanted in any manner I selected. Thoughts flowing-not in a capitalize the first letter and end with a period rigidness-but in an express what you want how you want format. At times I wanted to use all lowercase because my mind reads capitalization with a stronger voice and having the gentle word of beating writing Beating made it sound off in my head from how I wanted it to. I loved poetry. I excelled in poetry. I felt secure within the boundaries and could then just write.
I could sense this same feel of freedom as I read her brilliant writing. She was free. She was more herself, the limits enabled her form.
It made me feel small. Without a talent worth using.
A silly thought indeed. Truthfully one I rarely battle. I like how I am wired and gifted. But that night I laid in bed with my small feeling self propped up on my left arm until it went all tingling and worn. My mind felt similar. Tingly with the thrill of interacting with such talent. Tingly with the endless avenues that were still left for me to discover in this field of written art. And worn. Worn because I had so much I wanted for myself in that moment-and much of it would never be realized. I don't have a medium-a microphone as powerful.
I wanted to roll out of bed, turn on the hall light and fill page upon page with lists of my desires in that very moment. Lists help steady me when excitement, inspiration, daunting tasks or flooding thoughts leave no room in my mind for anything else. But I battled the thought. Logically I needed sleep. At 34 weeks pregnant every moment of rest I could get needed to be used entirely. Nate would worry to wake and not find me next to him. As I laid there with my logic I heard a muffled cry.
I sprang up to respond. Relieved to have a valid reason to rise. Sweet Vera had fallen out of her bed and sat huddled on the ground-not sure how to fix the problem herself. Just like me. Sitting stuck between sleep, dreaming, action and immobility. Just crying enough to be dealt with but not enough to stir anyone else. I scooped her up-thankful to have her little frame curved into mine. I held her-like He was holding me. Clarity deep and thick hit-This is enough for you because I chose it for you. "Equipped for every good work...." Let go of equipped for each fancy, every desire, this world so full of options....stick to the good work I called You to. I cried over the little blonde curls of a heavy hot body. Thankful that I always find my landing spot. Not because I am an expert flyer but because it all has been charted out for me....before I even had form.