It's been over a year since I visited this space, and I feel nervous writing again. After I gave birth to Oscar, I lost my ability to write. My brain couldn't craft metaphors or connect abstract ideas very well. As a perfectionist, it's hard for me to publish something that I haven't poured over for hours. When you become a mother of not one, but two babies, you ditch perfectionism and your new motto becomes, "Ain't nobody got time for that." And because I didn't have time to make my writing perfect, I stopped writing altogether.
In my patriarchal blessing, I am admonished repeatedly to move confidently towards my dreams and in so doing face my greatest temptation: the tendency to let discouragement and disparaging comments from others paralyze me. I've learned during 37 years of living inside my own crazy head that "others" is a euphemism for the nasty voices that exist within all of us. They tell us we're not good enough so why bother trying. They encourage us to lay our complex, messy inside selves next to the glossy, perfected outside selves of our peers. There the two lay on the altar of comparison, and it becomes pretty clear who's not measuring up. And most insidiously, those voices tell us that we could be better, brighter, glossier if we were somehow less lazy, stupid, selfish, ________ (fill in the blank with your favorite insult).
So screw those voices. Screw them. I'm writing in all of my complex messy non-glossy glory because writing makes me feel good. And more importantly it's a way for me to glorify God. Maybe my writing won't be as chiseled as my pre-baby days, but chiseled is overrated. The older I get the more I come to understand that the best life has to offer exists in the quiet spaces of earnest imperfection.
So here's to creating and being vulnerable and making mistakes and courageously contributing to the pulsing, vibrant energy that fuels all that is great in the world.