Tonight, I hit a wall. I’ve been staring at the open computer screen for two hours, on and off. My best friend and I simultaneously played “What did the fox say” for eachother, while chatting on Facetime. We’re always late to the party, but we go really hard when we get there.
I looked at recipes on the internet then took a bath.
I toweled off and put on my pajamas and sat back down on the couch without so much as a glimmer of inspiration.
“Maybe I shouldn’t write from the couch.”
When I declared my intention to write for thirty days, it felt joyful and exciting. Like it would be beautiful and rewarding and effortless:
It’s daring and challenging and I shiver with excitement when I think about the surge of energy awaiting me at the end of it.
“What an accomplishment.”
When it’s over, I will write a heartfelt victory blog that’s both funny and inspiring. My friends, real and electronic, will undertake thirty day challenges of their own. They will post hilarious videos, or give a stranger a hug, or call their moms, or bake a month’s worth of inventive, cookie recipes.
They will write and sing and live their passion.
And when they feel discouraged, or pressed for time, or turned off by their most recent embrace of an unwitting hug-ee, they will read number fourteen of my thirty for thirty for thirty blogs and recommit to their effort.
I never considered how hard it is to do anything, for thirty days straight.
Make it to yoga and eat enough vegetables and be patient with people in traffic. Respond mindfully to irritating situations and apologize immediately when you don’t. Drink plenty of water and get out in the sunshine and tell the people you love, you love them. Walk the dog and practice gratitude and don’t take any moment of this extraordinary life for granted.
Floss, at least once a day.
In my life, I’ve wanted to give up on everything I didn’t do perfectly, the first time.
And most of the time, I have.
Tonight, I’m reminded that everything I want to do, I can, even if I don’t do it, moment to moment.
In the next breath, the next opportunity, I can begin again.
So tomorrow, just maybe, I’ll write something beautiful and moving and well punctuated.
Or I won’t.
And maybe I’ll let that be o.k., too.