Have you ever noticed how hard it is to start something you want to do?
There’s a secret pocket of my heart where dreams are stored. And tucked deep inside—layered beneath my more prominent aspirations—is a teeny-tiny dream to write a blog. Because this dreamlet feels more like a whisper and less like a shout, I don’t really know what to do with it.
It shouldn’t be that intimidating. It’s not like I want to become a best-selling author or sit on Oprah’s couch—I just want to write something I don’t have to bribe my parents to look at.
I’m like a kid who very much wants to join the soccer team, but she’s never played. I suit up, I trot onto the field, weave around the bodies positioned between me and the ball. And then I get there. But, instead of striking, I just stop, staring curiously at the round object. Unsure what to do next.
That was me earlier, wandering around my house in my pajamas, stumped by life’s tough questions.
What if I wrote about …?
Running? Uninspiring and sparse. By the way, my personal trainer was a no-show at 6:00 am, BUT DON’T WORRY, I’M NOT BITTER.
Home life? Blessed, but drama-free. My husband still loves me even though I leave peanut butter spoons on the counter and turn his undershirts pink in the wash. No scintillating material here.
Work? In an increasingly polarized country, agreeing with someone’s politics seems the current litmus test for friendship. Pass.
Cooking? On Sunday I spent several hours slaving in the kitchen, meticulously planning out every meal. By Tuesday I couldn’t stand the sight of leftovers and now my fridge smells like rotting cabbage.
So now you understand my dilemma—to write without having anything to say.
Maybe it would have been easier if my dreamlet had been more meaningful. Like if I aspired to cure cancer or stamp out world hunger, then I’d have something to write. But, alas…
I’ll drag this half-baked dream around with me. Comforted by low-fat peanut butter and a loving spouse—just to get me through life’s first-world rough patches.