I have a house full of musicians. Someone is constantly tapping a beat, singing or playing a guitar. It’s everywhere in my house, some of it bad enough to drive me insane and some of it beautiful enough to bring tears to my eyes. I am in the midst of very talented and creative people. I can’t carry a tune to save my life, but I have such an appreciation for all the hard work they put into their craft. I sit in the audience at their concerts and shows and I am so proud of them. Their New Years resolution all had to deal with music and how they plan on growing even more. I will continue to support their efforts in every aspect I can. I do this not because I love music, but because I love them. They too make every effort to support me in my creative adventures. This should be enough for me to keep going.
Yet when I found out this week that several family members have chosen to not read my posts, I lost all ambition to keep up my craft. I can hear their excuses of lack of time and too many obligations, I understand all about that. It still hurts that they can’t take five minutes to read one of my weekly posts that I have written over the past five months. I also had this conversation with a girl who does my hair, talking about what we like to do. When I said that writing was one of those things, her reply was that she did that too, when she was in high school and had nothing better to do. The thing I love to do has very little value to most. My husband suggested that I change my style and make my writing a little more risky and controversial if I am looking to impress family and friends. Is that what I really want?
I am disgust with myself for feeling this way. For thinking I do this for recognition and that it only has value if my family or friends find it worthwhile. A self-pity party was in full swing all week-long. Depression and insecurity were my special campaigns encouraging me to quit and find something else to do. I spent all week trying to pacify myself with my paying jobs, immersing myself in spreadsheets and power point presentations. Nothing seemed to work. The fog would not lift.
The weather helped to encourage my self-induced depression by being dreary and rainy all week-long. By Saturday morning, instead of getting up for my normal quiet time, I slept. Instead of a morning cup of coffee with the Lord, I covered my head and slept dreamless hours away, until the sun shone through my window. The sun! A quick check of my weather app, told me that it was to be sunny and warm with rain moving back in the afternoon. A small window of sun was enough to get me out of bed.
Coffee cup in hand, I walk the grounds and dreamed of the garden that would come back to life this spring. This is where it all began, where I found my inspiration for my writing. I chose to honor this space with a good clean up. I spent the next few hours pulling up dead plants, pruning and cleaning up my pots. I could feel dark thoughts lift with each passing hour. The cleaning up of the garden was helping me clean out the negative thoughts that I have accumulated all week-long. As I found my rhythm, I began to think of other things instead of what I was not. I could feel my inspiration taking hold and my soul taking flight. This is what I have missed.
During my chore, I found a discarded bag of flower bulbs that someone had given me last spring. I put the bag in garage to wait until fall, but I forgot about it. I remember the girl who gave them away. We were in a class together and I remember her going to each table trying to find people interested in taking a handful of her bulbs. Nobody seemed interested in the lifeless nugget, no one understood the promise that each held. When she made her way to me, I admired her treasure because they were beautiful to me. I knew that she had painstakingly dug them up, cleaned them and allowed them to dry in the sun. Her smile lit up her face when she saw how much I admired them. She gave me the bag. Her efforts had value to someone.
I carelessly forgot to plant them this past fall. These bulbs neglected, but yet they still showed signs of growth. If something wants to live, it will find away, even if it does not have fertile ground to grow in. It doesn’t wait for the perfect conditions. It sprouts because it has faith that it will grow. I think this thought as I am placing the bulb in the hole and covering it with dirt. I plant it because I am a gardener and I have faith it will grow into a flower. I need to have the same faith as a writer, if I want to grow as a writer.
Chances are that my family or friends will not see this flower I am planting. They will not admire its beauty or know how I cared for it over the winter and into the spring. Chances are they will not know where it came from and what conditions it had to endure. They will not notice the miracle. Does that mean I should not plant it?
The same could be said about my writing. Will it grow a writer? Only time will tell….