Thunder is booming this morning, warning of a morning rain. My first task upon rising was to run outside and rescue clothes from the clothesline. I forgot to start the coffeepot, so am now waiting for it to brew. I’ll be late to work again today.
Two mornings now, since my grandson’s sleeping presence kept me company in the mornings. Two days since my daughter and I drank coffee together. Things are falling back to normal, but I miss them, still.
One hundred and sixty days of writing, and what have I gained? I’ve gotten in the habit of just starting, and trusting that the words will find me. I’ve learned that it doesn’t always have to be important, or pertinent, or deep. I’ve gained confidence in my ability to stick with it.
That’s the main thing: mostly when I’ve been slowed or stopped dead in my tracks, when I have been too cautious or wary of taking a chance, the reason – buried underneath all the other reasons and excuses – has been simply fear of failure. A lack of confidence in my ability to push through, even when it’s hard or boring or miserable, has kept me from stepping out. If that’s the only thing I’ve learned, that’s enough.