My 2018 Word: Possibility

It's a New Year, and with it comes that familiar sense of fresh purpose, renewed vigor, and revived hope.  It's Spring for the soul, this mid-winter hush, this hard re-set, this dazzlingly blank page full of promise and Possibility.

Possibility.  It's my focus word for 2018.  In 2017 I honed in on Balance;  that was last year's word, and by embracing it, I gave myself permission to step back, reevaluate, and get my feet underneath me.  I'd just made an epic decision to quit traditional photography so I could pursue what was truly in my heart of hearts to do: honest, artistic storytelling.  I gave myself permission to breathe, to explore, to rest, to push and pull and be a human being, not merely a human doing.

I've not fully mastered the art of balance (because life is a process, and growth is a journey), but I do sense it has served me well, and that I am now being given a new opportunity -- with moving to Florida and starting fresh in a new place -- to step out in faith, to branch off onto a fresh and exciting journey.  I see this grand world opening up wide to me.  I see it offering endless Possibility!  

A New Year -- can you feel it??? 

Now, I could be the sort of person to insist on caution and prudence, to allow a sense of cynical demise get the best of me, to slap on my common sense hat and advise against this, that, or the other ...

But let's be honest:  I'm not that sort of person.  I'm a daft and dewey-eyed dope.  I'm more of the "let your dreams soar and your heart beat Life into ya" school of thought.  This New Year stuff gets me excited -- and this 2018 New Year stuff has me excited in ways I've never been excited before.

Why?

Because I've made a plan, and I can see just how much I get to learn in 2018!  I can see clearly the growth I'm about to experience!  I can see the Possibility!  I have set goals and charted the course to attain them.  I've made concrete promises to myself, and I've allowed pockets of grace for renewal along the way.  I've determined my priorities and I've joyfully embraced the process between January 1st and December 31st, 2018 -- 365 sunrises and sunsets, with new people to meet, new challenge to embrace, new hopes to be had, new art to be made!

How about you?  What have you determined in your heart to accomplish this year?  What is your possibility?  Please share in a comment below -- I look forward to learning from you!

Breathing Again

You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what
I've been through like you do

-- Brandi Carlile, "The Story"

There is a phrase (or variation thereof) which I have been given time and time again, over the last half decade or so, a phrase so often repeated by friends and perfect strangers that it is too numerous to count:

"You have such a way with words -- have you ever thought about writing?"

And when I receive these words -- mind you, always as a compliment and an encouragement -- I've felt a deep, very hopeless heartache. 

Why?

Because I was a writer.  I did write.  I not only thought about writing, I wrote like the dickens -- for decades.  About people and self and stories, thick literary overtones littered with the occasional madness.  Exactly like a properly proper writer.  

You see, when I was ten years old I had a dream:  to be a published author.  Nearly fifteen years later, I started a blog, back before blogs were a Thing, and with it I had a fairly decent following.  I graduated college with a dual B.S. in English and psychology, my Senior project being a full-immersion with a literary professor who personally guided me through the dark and mysterious waters of editing and publication -- ostensibly so I would be well-versed in how to finally be "a real writer".  And I wrote a novel, dozens of short stories, placed well in writing contests, and received lots and lots of wonderful feedback.

But also, heartbreak.

My novel was never published, despite my best efforts, and when my dad died in 2009, something bigger than my frail abilities fell over me, smothering me.  The words dried up.  The desire for words dried up too.  I laid aside my pen with no intention nor expectation of ever picking it up again.  My heart was completely broken.

I began a journey toward healing when I picked up a camera ... and that's how I wound up doing photography -- which makes perfect sense since photos are simply stories of a visual nature.  I did well in that creative field;  I still enjoy using my camera to create art and further capture moments that would otherwise be lost in the ephemera of time -- will continue to enjoy photography and creating visually because it is now a piece of me --

but still

words

They've been my constant.  Such simple things: curves with connected dots and sticks in various stunted heights, nothing more than vague black symbols with associated meanings, never the same depending on who or what circumstances observes them -- but oh the soul to be found in each and every word!  There's never been a day -- even when I consciously put aside such things with hardened intention -- that words have not been my saving grace.  They are the air in my lungs, the lifeline tethering my flesh to the spirit pulsing inside.

And every time I made a comment on a Facebook status or sent an e-mail or a thank you note or did anything of any sort which involved heart-laced words, I would hear it again and again and again -- like a beating drum ... or the insistent whisper of the heart pumping hot blood through laced veins:

"You have such a way with words -- have you ever thought about writing?"

write, Lauren

(( write ))

For the longest time I refused.  The pain was too heavy, the defeat too overwhelming.  Then, I refused out of a sense of anger and defiance over past failures and a grief so thick it clung to me like a choking tar.  But after a while it became impossible to ignore.  See, when you are nudged, however gently, toward the edge of a precipice, at some point you realize you will fall -- or soar.  At some point you realize God is offering you the very wings which are vital to your soaring.

So it is with wide open excitement (and, I must admit, nervous anxiety), I write these next words:

I'm writing again. 

Not just here (though, yes, that too -- so many ideas I haven't the time to share them here with you all!), but Real Writing.  With broad topics and chapters and research and everything.  I'm working on a deeply personal project, an idea I had many years ago but which wasn't quite ripe enough for the plucking.  But now is the perfect time, ripe as it is, ready to be sliced open, juices spilling out, all fresh and sweet and life-giving.

I want to thank every single one of you who voiced God's urging, even when you didn't know you were doing it.  By simply reaching out to me in love, you put me back to rights again -- piece by delicate piece, reminding me of my nature and higher calling.  I can't thank you enough.  I'm writing again.  I'm breathing again -- truly and properly filling my lungs with intoxicating air and exhaling relief-suffused purpose and joy.  And that is everything to me.

Everything.

Thank you.