Roots, Wings, and Birthday Blues

I turn twenty-six today.  A birthday!  I can’t complain that I am old, because I am not.  Twenty-six years is young, typically it isn't even half a life-time, but I can’t help but feel like I am losing something. Another year of possibility has been used up.

When I was in college it was as though the whole world was a playground of possibilities.  I imagined great things for myself; I imagined myself as a successful writer.  If it is shallow that I hoped my creative talents would be recognized and take me somewhere, then I was shallow.  Suddenly I’m twenty-six, and my energy is being used to hold a stable job instead of writing.  I worked hard to get my first story published, but then I decided I needed a job out of the food service industry to be able to stay out of debt and still afford to buy berries at the grocery store on occasion if I wanted, or to save for a new car someday.  I've been successful and enjoyed the modest but supportive jobs I've had, but my personal dreams that were once more possible became luxurious fantasies.  I haven’t taken the time to write and read and commiserate with other writers.  Instead I've kept up on laundry.  Maybe I am practical, but maybe I just wasn't brave enough to go blindly into an insecure future of trying to make a living by writing poetry.  My birthday reminds me that I am not getting younger.  If I want something, I need to make time now, because my window of opportunity is only getting smaller.  Yet I still feel torn.

And maybe it’s not only my birthday.  The other day I was talking with a co-worker and they asked me how my writing was going:  “Are you working on anything new?” 

(This question, and really any question about my writing, always makes me feel incredibly self-conscious.  If I do not have success of any kind to report, I feel that means the opposite must be true: I am a failure.  And if I haven’t been working on anything, I feel guilty for spending my evenings cooking a healthy dinner at home and relaxing from the business of the day instead of being dedicated to the writer inside to which I identify.  The truth is that many writers have more responsibilities than I do, and they still make it happen.  It is this truth that squeezes my heart when I try to answer this question, because I know that I am not driving myself towards dreams like I could.)

“Well, not really,” I say, “I do have a blog that my mother and husband read.  Really my husband just looks at the pictures and pretends to read it, but that’s good enough for me.”

“Oh, well my daughter-in-law is a professional blogger…”  (my feeling of failure intensifies, I know that’s not his intention so I try to maintain happiness for this stranger’s success) …”people just give her money to go on trips and write about it…”  (I swallow the nasty taste of jealousy as it starts to bloom in my mouth)…”she’s been to Africa, Asia, Europe…”  (My feelings are black death).

But then, a few days later, I get a call from a dear friend who is following her writing dream.  She is finishing Grad school, publishing a book, and just presented a public lecture from a research scholarship she was awarded.  She holds her writing life, her business, and her family together with incredible strength; and yet she was crying to me over the phone.  There were real tears, shattering conversation, from a fear that she wouldn't be able to support herself even with her current writing success.  What could I tell her?

Most of the time, I am very satisfied with my life. I've never wanted to be rich, only comfortable.  I’ve never wanted to be famous, but I do want to produce quality products or services in my life. I am comfortable; I do my best at the work I create.  But this little nagging dream…

I was given the ability to grow roots of reality but I have these stretching wings of hope; I feel as though I am tiring myself out by hovering just above ground, not planting myself in the nutrient-dark soil, and not tearing myself away and into wonderful blue gulf of sky.

Don’t mind me, just hovering. 

Twenty-six and hovering. 

Oh, and Mom, thanks for reading my blog.

"I was given the ability to grow roots of reality but I have these stretching wings of hope; I feel as though I am tiring myself out by hovering just above ground, not planting myself in the nutrient-dark soil, and not tearing away and into the wonderful blue gulf of sky."