words and things

This weekend I had the wonderful opportunity to go the the final year of the Women of Faith conference. 

The tour is entitled "Loved," but for me three things stuck out: beautifully strung together words (you should've seen me scramble to write down the perfectly constructed prose verbatim), anxiety, and dreams. To me, those things became the weekend's theme. 

I of course got swept into stories and inspiration. I laughed a lot. I sang praises in a room of 20,000, united in lifting our voices the day after people were shot for professing the same faith to which we cling. I somehow walked away not sponsoring a child through World Vision, despite the tear-inducing REAL stories. I will soon, surely. 

But I really clung to those three aforementioned things, because they're what's relevant for me. 

Here's the thing: I haven't ever felt like I have a "thing." 

You know, like a hobby. Passion. Obsession. Ridiculous natural inclination or talent. 

Upon meeting me for the first time, if you ask what music or movies or activities I like the most, I'll probably get blinky eyes and start talking in circles or completely shutting down. 

I like things. I don't like others. I pass the time somehow. That's all I've got. Not Top 10 Lists. 

I'm super insecure about this. I feel like I can't define or describe myself, and therefore I've got nothing to offer. 

Just a couple weeks ago out of seemingly thin air, on a margarita and a half and I'm pretty sure prophetic speaking of tongues, my aunt declared that she sees me making writing closer to a full time career someday. 

I was taken aback, of course, after spending the last five and a half years learning how to be a speech language pathologist. But, she explained, the reason I really clicked with the launch team was that we all loved words... a lot of us have an tendency to feel big feelings in the form of words. 

I've always known that language arts came fairly naturally to me in school, and that I'd rather write a paper than take a math test, but I never realized it could be my thing in a broad sense of defining me, beyond grades or a career. It's kind of a personality thing, too. 

It makes sense. 

I have a Pinterest board with all my speech path stuff entitled "communication is everything." My entire job life is built upon words - the articulation of them and the formation of the language patterns around them, or, in some cases, alternate ways of conveying meaning aside from actual spoken words. 

The five love languages quiz has undoubtedly confirmed that I thrive on "words of affirmation." 

I once heard a song writer describe her writing process, discussing finding inspiration in all kinds of places - airports and malls and everywhere in between. I get that. Just today I watched birds around a pond and the essay about their habits and actions tying back into my own life started writing itself.

And so with writing being ever on my mind (as I finally am beginning to accept that I better understand the world when I see it as a person who writes), but with no direction in what story to tell or where to start, I went into this huge event. 

And I got hung up on words. Of all the lovely messages encouraging women to be faithful, to take heart, to share love, to make changes, my ears only perked to specific parts. 

I was practically in a helicopter overlooking the forest (hello nosebleed seats), and yet still all I saw was individual trees. I picked out my sentences to grab hold of and quickly wrote them down, then reread and got stuck on them, until the syntax spoken so moved me enough again to rejoin the rest of the arena. 

Until the helicopter flew over the forest specifically called anxiety, where I could pick out myself as a tree. It's been a word awfully close to my mind and tear ducts of late. I learned that lots of pretty little messy trees were right there with me, and some had moved on. That I could too. I could grow legs and plant my roots elsewhere. In the forest of dreams. I would need water, sunshine, routine, resolve and maybe some tender care from someone who understands the delicate nature of trees like me, but I could certainly be transplanted no matter how deep and stuck my roots felt. Or maybe they feel shallow and weak like the whole tree will topple at any second. It's a day to day, minute to minute thing, my perception of root depth. 

The sweet friend who went with me is a self-professed dreamer, whereas I can unfortunately be paralyzed in the world of realism. She asked me hard questions, and she, like my aunt, brought up writing without solicitation. It just cracks me up - the two of them. Aunt Dana is awesome at going with the flow and is a math teacher (read: not a feely word person like me). Amelia can tell stories that make you roll on the floor laughing, but ask her to spell or pronounce a word, or write a paper, and she's down for the count. They both make friends easily and take life as it comes, and I so admire them for that. The fact that it is the two of them speaking this unexpected truth in me is just funny, sweet, and real.

It still feels so vague and abstract and I don't know when or how it will come together. Or what "it" even is. I only write now sporadically when I feel so compelled, and my thoughts are many and jumbled. 

The thing I know for now is that I need to care for myself. I have been working through crazy amounts of anxiety and fear about work, the future, and who I am. I know that I want to live a life of joy and peace, even amongst whatever unforeseen circumstances may be or are yet to come. I don't think a girl has to know the conclusion of the story to start the book, figuratively and literally speaking, but I feel hypocritical putting words into the world when I still feel so messy and uncertain about my very being. 

I'm figuring it out, because I can now believe that words are a big part of it. I'm starting to trust that words play into how I'm wired, which both relieves insecurities and ignites dreams. See how I needed to put those three words together (words + fears + anxiety) to finally get it? My brain, I'm telling you...