I won’t write in my paper and ink journal because it’s too much effort, even though I carry it everywhere I go except the bathroom, but I will journal at the computer where all my friends and family and seven billion strangers have access to it. Nonetheless, I noticed the other day that I haven’t posted since the fourth day of February, and this blog needs to earn it’s keep, so here we are.
I read not long ago that if you devote an hour a day to reading about a certain topic, you’ll be an expert in that field within seven years. And I wondered what fields I would explore if I decided to do that. I haven’t, you know. Decided, I mean. I just wondered. But I’d like to be an expert in social work. And I would like to be able to render a picture in my mind into recognizable form. Not using words, that is–just lines, color, shading. And I would like to be able to differentiate one classical composer from another without needing to look at the cd label. I need to choose wisely. At forty-eight, I have time to become an expert in only five areas assuming I do them one at a time (and die at the expected time with my mind intact–a pretty rash assumption). I won’t do it singularly, if I do it at all, because that’s how I roll, but still. That’s the maximum amount of time I have.
Then, I read that if you write three hundred words per day, you’ll have a book at the end of the year. Just three hundred. Man, that’s kinder and gentler than the one thousand six hundred and sixty-seven that NaNoWriMo requires, isn’t it? I think I could do three hundred. You’ll notice that all the numbers are spelled out here, and THIS is the three hundred and twelfth word. So I am there. Not that this is novel material, but it took less than fifteen minutes from deciding to blog to get to three hundred and twelve words.
I’m once again confronted with the difference between what I say I want and what I actually do.
I’ve been presented recently with the opportunity to pursue a thirty-five year old dream, with minor alterations in details. And by minor I mean less than 500 miles. It’s a thing I can’t not do. Because thirty-five years. Offered at a time I am financially, mentally, emotionally prepared to do it. To not do the thing would be stupid. Even if I am terrified.
People ask folks with back tats what the point is. Why would you get a tattoo where you can never see it? I do see it. I can look in the mirror. Or at photos. But more importantly than being able to SEE it, is knowing it’s there. Every day. This is a useful thing for me. Every time I have an opportunity that scares me, I remind myself I am fearless. I am so fearless that I paid good money to have it painfully etched into my skin.
Do you remember when I got it? I do. Three years ago. One year away from my BSW. After four years of single parenting. After putting more demons to rest than I care to re-visit today. I’m fearless. And so I’m moving.