Ash

I used to have dreams wherein my teeth would break apart in my mouth. Crumble like chalk and settle into dusty piles that stuck on my cheeks and threatened to choke me. It would start in the back, near my molars, and work it's way toward the front—a domino effect reminiscent of special effects scenes of buildings turned to ash in the aftermath of a bomb or piles of soft soot left behind by July 4th snakes on the sidewalk.

I'm not sure what this means. But having half a tooth fall of has reminded me of them. They used to happen frequently—recurrent and frightening. And then they stopped somewhere along the way... forgotten and replaced by other strange evening flights.

Perhaps it is about communication... or a fear of being silenced. I am a communicator, probably more than anything else, and the thought of losing that strength and comfort is quite scary to me.

What you fear reveals what you value (and vice versa).

Day 1 (of 13138)

A few years ago, my friend Rachel was telling me about a woman she knows up in NH who she found rather inspiring. She had designed her own house, published a few books, and was some sort of artist - I want to say weaver, but that could be just what's stuck in my head and in no way accurate.

The important part about this memory - distorted as it may be - was how I felt upon hearing about this person... and the way it resonated in my solar plexus. I wanted to be that brave... that fearless in my artistic and personal pursuits. To possess such confidence and to have faith in my ability to create such things for myself and follow a path that was genuine and fruitful.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I think my first book was one I wrote about having my tonsils removed. My mother still has it in a drawer full of special papers and creations by both me and my brother. I've always loved writing, and I've always written in one form or another. But I've never believed strongly enough in my ability to be an author that I just shoved off and did it.

Until today. I had a story pop into my head a few nights ago, a book idea, which is not all that unusual. I have those all the time... usually children's books or young adult fiction. I let them kick around in my head and sometimes write down titles or short little descriptions... but I never commit to the actual writing because I always get worried I will fail when it comes time to send it out and find a publisher.

Today I decided to break that cycle of stagnation. I began writing what will hopefully become my first children's book. I figure, it's in my head and it's the clearest, most marketable idea I've ever had. It just keeps coming to me... pouring forth like a steady trickle and begging to be placed somewhere permanent. So who am I to argue?

I have no idea who will illustrate it. I have no idea how to send the manuscript out, find a publisher, cut a deal, etc. But at least I have gotten to the point of no longer blocking myself from writing it and believing that when it comes time for the next step, I'll figure it out.

So whether this leads to something you can one day buy off the book shelf or not, it still marks a large leap for me and my fear of commitment (and lack of self-confidence). It marks a shift in the way I view myself and the relationship I have to making choices and creating movement in my life.

I've been thinking of Rachel all day... appreciating the moment wherein she told me that story, because it carried forward to today and changed the way I approach my life. It's funny to carry a gift like that around with you and choose to unwrap it several years later, but I've always been a bit pokey about opening up to good things.