I have been trying and trying to write a post for today. I haven’t missed a Wednesday post since I started writing weekly back in March. I don’t want to skip a day but to be honest, this is tough!
I love blogging, and I love writing. I’ve learned a ton over the last few months. My mind spins with ideas of things I want to write about, the where I want to focus, what I want to learn, and what I want to give.
I think sometimes my ideas start spinning so quickly that I forget to act on them instead of only thinking about them.
The story that I really wanted to share today, I’ve decided is too personal. My number one blogging rule is to not share anything on the web that I’ve haven’t worked through in person with close friends, first. So I’m really struggling to let that go and find something of value to share. In the four years I’ve been writing a blog, I think the space has morphed from sharing what I did last Thursday to a space of asking big questions and seeking bigger answers.
I’m not satisfied to only tell personal stories, or offer social justice education. I want to have material to share every day, but I’m fighting my perfectionist nature that wants to edit and re-edit every word written. Blogs are meant to be organic, like the food I eat. I hate writing something, then reading it months later and thinking “that post sucks!” Even if the word on the street is that every writer thinks that at some point.
If you want to be good at something, you endure a lot of bad days, a lot of goals unmet, and methods gone wrong. Even Michael Jackson had to learn how to dance.
Learning to write well, with honesty and value, and to un-learn my perfectionist nature, takes work!
I’ve always hated practice.
My parents signed me up for piano lessons in second grade. I was pretty good at it, and would have been better had I practiced. But oh how I hated practicing. My sweet piano teacher had so much patience for this girl who showed up to lessons each week with a practice sheet only half completed. I remember staying home one week, with a stomach ache. The next week, when it was time for my lesson, lo and behold I had another stomach ache. My mom, the wise woman she was, pointed out that my stomach likely hurt because I was nervous from lack of practicing! She convinced me to try to sit through a torturous lesson with my stomach in knots. I’m not sure I ever really swallowed my pride to admit that she was right. But I did learn that my lack of responsibility was my problem, and nothing that I could make an excuse for.
Oh, pride. It just eats us, little by little. We don’t realize that something dies in us each time we refuse to let it go.
Fear always eats at us. Poco a poco, until we no longer recognize love. Until we no longer recognize who we are and what we were created for.
What would you do if your pride wasn’t stopping you? What would you do if you were no longer afraid?