I feel pressured.
Sometimes my brain crawls into this odd crooked nook where paper becomes empty canvas. When I arrive here, I find it feels better, best even, to extract thoughts and opinions from the secret space in my head and to throw them onto the blank board (also known as Word Doc). To pull out useless thinking and twist the thoughts with my fingers like play-dough, to twist them into curves and lines, into words.
When I don’t write for a while, not for myself specifically, the crooked nook becomes trickier to find.
Yes, even with modern technology offering empty canvas with just a tap tap.
A good writer, I think as I stare at the blank word document, ties everything up. They have a theme.
Good writers are the ones that take an entire twelve months of happenings, birth, death–the big stuff, yes–and somehow, God only knows, squeeze everything into a paragraph-style Christmas letter. A holiday hello complete with hook opening, sexy edited body, and a closing thought that contains not only a summary but a new nugget that you can take home with you.
A nugget-sized idea like a personalized party gift at an over-the-top wedding you didn’t dress quite right for.
The past month has been this hodgepodge of experiences, all of which I feel are worth mentioning, but none that I am easily linking.
Hence, the pressure.
I accomplished things. I suppose that this, at least, is certain.
I finished teaching for the time being–which was weird. Kiddos were saying, “see you next year, Miss Hofer!” and I didn’t have the heart to say, “I will likely never see you again. Never. Ever.”
I didn’t hate being a teacher. Sometimes I loved it. But mostly I knew, and I knew early on, that I needed to commit to the career. I didn’t and still don’t feel right continuing on in a classroom setting on this half-in, half-out basis. It’s too important a role. It’s too exhausting a job.
Accomplishment two, I ran a half-marathon. It probably goes without saying that this was less ‘weird’ and more so just ‘difficult.’ Hans, my boyfriend/running partner/person-to-blame-for-convincing-me-to-sign-up told me on many-an-ocassion that, “it would be easy!”
“By the end of our training, you’ll be cruising!” he said. He’s a very encouraging guy.
But I don’t think I ever cruised, per say.
In fact, by Mile 8 I felt like a sort of hippo who was more or less dragging my thunder thighs from mile marker to mile marker.
I did cross my very first finish line and eat a pancake breakfast by some port-a-potties, and I did feel like a complete boss in my slinky new Chicago Half t-shirt afterwards. So that’s something. That is definitely something.
Accomplishment three, I decided what I want to do next, more or less.
I’m still writing. Actually, I’m writing more. I write for work and I write quite a bit. Most recently, I started writing for Mennonite Health Services. This is my first Mennonite-related gig, and that’s significant to me. It’s one thing to write for real estate in Canada (a fine endeavor, thank you!) and it’s another thing to write for your home church.
For now, I’ll do both and we’ll see how it all comes together when I move to Pennsylvania in August. When I move to start a job at a well-respected theatre in Lancaster County.
I feel the transition. I feel it a lot. I didn’t know you could feel all your things in boxes–yes, this is getting bizarre–but gosh, I can.
Will I have enough qualifications by the time I turn 25 to start a business as a professional mover? I wonder to myself.
My wandering feet feel a little off balance as I visit hilly Pennsylvania this week. I am oddly nervous to go home the week following, I am wondering what will come the week after, I am considering and reconsidering the weeks after that.
Go ahead, wrap your story in a cute theme. Put a bow on it. Ship it around the world to friends and family and don’t forget a pic.
In December. Do that in December. Because today, it’s June. And in June, this June, anything goes.
The world is churning and turning and the future seems ever-more far away from the past.
No links, no ties, no summaries. Just twist the words and let them fly.