It always starts the same way. The calling, the creating, the idea, the ambition, the dream.
The “I have to,” the “I want to,” the “I need to.”
It always starts the same way. Small, tentative, fearful, breathless. Sweaty palms, pumping blood, voice pounding “no” like wild drumbeat while another softer one breathes faint yes.
And it grows. The idea grows legs, or wings, or wheels. And they lengthen and unfurl and unroll. Wobbling, weaving, stopping, starting, jerky clunky stumbling, just plain awkward.
It doesn’t feel right I’m never going to get this why am I even doing this.
Cautious, oh so cautious.
A sure hand, encouraging words, pedaling onward.
Confidence blooms slow, like a tulip pushing through cracked March dirt.
And then when you least expect it, the calling or creating or dream or idea explodes like fireworks. You smile broad, shout joy, spin into reality fast and furious and ever so slightly out of control.
And maybe you end up in the shrubs once or twice. And maybe you have to brush gravel off palms and sand off pants. But you feel it happening.
And so you do it again and again and again.
And it is good.
Counting small joys as we mourn with a nation…
79 Little boy biking
80 Smell of spring in morning air
81 Eagle turning eggs on nest
82 Nun wearing backpack at the bus stop
83 Young woman old man walking slowly
84 Desk bearing hidden treasure
85 Frost flakes on car windshield