My house looks like Christmas. I'm amazed. After spending so many years moving in the winter, or being so busy that nobody has time to hang lights, or being too poor to have any lights, or being poor enough to not even have a home, Christmas at home is an alien concept. And I kinda hope it stays that way. The atmosphere is so pretty I want to cry. I don't want to lose that.
********
I think I have a case of Jack of All Trades, Master of None Syndrome. I'm smart. I'm skilled. I work hard. Those, I think, are the most essential qualities of a career person. But I'm smart enough to know too much; I'm skilled enough to excel at too many things; I work hard enough to accomplish too much. I'm also more indecisive than the average human, so facing a cornucopia of options for what to do with my life leaves me stymied. I can do anything I want, so what's the right decision? Sometimes I think it would be nice to just be good at one thing. Or to only care about one thing. I could proceed down the path, then, without hesitating a moment.
As it stands now, I feel alive when I sing, and conversely dead when I don't. At any given moment, if you asked me what I'd rather be doing, I'd probably answer singing. That is, of course, taking for granted that I'm not already. I also feel the urge to go, which I can't help but associate with a musician's life. Not to say that you can't be a musician if you stay in one place, but performing more easily melds with travel than most vocations.
I also have an English degree and a fervent love of literature that reaches beyond wanting to read books. I feel uniquely compelled to encourage others in their creation of literature. While I do like crafting on my own, editing is by far one of my favorite things to do. It's a joy to help others reach in themselves and pull out a work of beauty. I've also taken up the cause of defending the gift of story. Too few people appreciate it for what it is. For many, story gets left in children's books and trashy romance novels people use to distract themselves from a life they don't like. To call that a tragedy only begins to describe the bleakness of such neglect and abuse. Story fuels imagination. It enriches life. It teaches people how to live; or rather, it teaches people to live. When I read a story, I don't proceed from the ending resolving to model my life precisely after what I just read, but I do feel encouraged to move on from there living. When I go for a time without a story passing through my mind, lethargy begins to seep through my body and will. Life overwhelms and I become too weary to live. I need stories of life, in all of its beauty and depravity, to inspire me to live the one I have.
And then I wander into the kitchen and find extreme fulfillment in making a cookie. Or a pie. Or tomato sauce. Or macaroni and cheese. Anything really, although I am partial to foods with flour. It's easy to get lost in the blending of ingredients for a whole day and not even care to eat anything. Physical indulgence is not the end of food-making for me. Just making it is the point. I'm too practical to let it waste, though, so I do appreciate when other people eat it. It's a reward to take part in sustaining life of individuals.
Running through all of these things is a love for people. In a vacuum, everything I enjoy would still be a joy, but a much diminished joy. I want what I do to be good for someone.
The possibilities are limitless, therefore I ask myself again, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
********
God's up to something. I can feel it in my bones. I don't know what it is, but I see evidence of it. Peace is flourishing in my spirit like never before. My family is experiencing unprecedented prosperity in the areas that matter; our relationships continue to strengthen; faith and contentment is multiplying; and most telling, we, collectively, started dreaming again. We've always been the kind to sit around and talk about all the grand things that might happen, encouraging other to keep moving forward in the face of adversity and discouragement, but life can be overwhelming. It recently became oppressively so, and the imagination of our household languished. At times it's been a struggle to be human. So I recently almost cried when my parents started dreaming up plans for what they might want to do with their future. For too long "future" hasn't extended far beyond making it through the next five minutes. The words "What if we..." are as invigorating as water after a long desert. Something's stirring in the wind, and I'm excited to see what it is.
********
I think I have a case of Jack of All Trades, Master of None Syndrome. I'm smart. I'm skilled. I work hard. Those, I think, are the most essential qualities of a career person. But I'm smart enough to know too much; I'm skilled enough to excel at too many things; I work hard enough to accomplish too much. I'm also more indecisive than the average human, so facing a cornucopia of options for what to do with my life leaves me stymied. I can do anything I want, so what's the right decision? Sometimes I think it would be nice to just be good at one thing. Or to only care about one thing. I could proceed down the path, then, without hesitating a moment.
As it stands now, I feel alive when I sing, and conversely dead when I don't. At any given moment, if you asked me what I'd rather be doing, I'd probably answer singing. That is, of course, taking for granted that I'm not already. I also feel the urge to go, which I can't help but associate with a musician's life. Not to say that you can't be a musician if you stay in one place, but performing more easily melds with travel than most vocations.
I also have an English degree and a fervent love of literature that reaches beyond wanting to read books. I feel uniquely compelled to encourage others in their creation of literature. While I do like crafting on my own, editing is by far one of my favorite things to do. It's a joy to help others reach in themselves and pull out a work of beauty. I've also taken up the cause of defending the gift of story. Too few people appreciate it for what it is. For many, story gets left in children's books and trashy romance novels people use to distract themselves from a life they don't like. To call that a tragedy only begins to describe the bleakness of such neglect and abuse. Story fuels imagination. It enriches life. It teaches people how to live; or rather, it teaches people to live. When I read a story, I don't proceed from the ending resolving to model my life precisely after what I just read, but I do feel encouraged to move on from there living. When I go for a time without a story passing through my mind, lethargy begins to seep through my body and will. Life overwhelms and I become too weary to live. I need stories of life, in all of its beauty and depravity, to inspire me to live the one I have.
And then I wander into the kitchen and find extreme fulfillment in making a cookie. Or a pie. Or tomato sauce. Or macaroni and cheese. Anything really, although I am partial to foods with flour. It's easy to get lost in the blending of ingredients for a whole day and not even care to eat anything. Physical indulgence is not the end of food-making for me. Just making it is the point. I'm too practical to let it waste, though, so I do appreciate when other people eat it. It's a reward to take part in sustaining life of individuals.
Running through all of these things is a love for people. In a vacuum, everything I enjoy would still be a joy, but a much diminished joy. I want what I do to be good for someone.
The possibilities are limitless, therefore I ask myself again, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
********
God's up to something. I can feel it in my bones. I don't know what it is, but I see evidence of it. Peace is flourishing in my spirit like never before. My family is experiencing unprecedented prosperity in the areas that matter; our relationships continue to strengthen; faith and contentment is multiplying; and most telling, we, collectively, started dreaming again. We've always been the kind to sit around and talk about all the grand things that might happen, encouraging other to keep moving forward in the face of adversity and discouragement, but life can be overwhelming. It recently became oppressively so, and the imagination of our household languished. At times it's been a struggle to be human. So I recently almost cried when my parents started dreaming up plans for what they might want to do with their future. For too long "future" hasn't extended far beyond making it through the next five minutes. The words "What if we..." are as invigorating as water after a long desert. Something's stirring in the wind, and I'm excited to see what it is.
