I like to write, I think. Somedays I’m not so certain, as I stare at a blank page, forgetting all the witty ditties I’ve composed in my head, wishing I could just think and things would pop up on the page rather than having to put pen to paper and physically write. There’s also the issue of releasing writings Out into the Wild: letting others in on my thoughts, ponderings, funny moments. Like my children, I wonder: will these words be treasured, seen for what they are, appreciated; or will they be seen to be too rambunkous and can’t you get a better handle on those things running amuck?
People ask me to write pieces for them. So I do. Often it’s a whirl of energy motivated by procrastination. I write; I revise; I submit; I rerevise. And then I forget. Off to the next activity, which is often evaluating the state of my house after not being supremely attentive to my wards (usually it’s a bit chaotic). So when I actually see the words in print, I’m a bit surprised: “I wrote something?” And then my melancholy response: “Uh oh, what did I write? Was it any good?”
Yesterday when I got the mail, I received my Yearly Meeting’s newsletter (The Connection). I faintly remember writing something for it, thinking it would be a little piece in the middle amongst notes of missionaries coming and going and quiz meets happening and to come. But, whoops: it was on the front page. And my melancholy nature said, “Uh oh. What did I write again?” followed by “methinks I’d write something different if I knew if was going to be front-page material.” Probably best I not think about those things, anyway.
Here’s my article. The online piece is longer than the printed because there wasn’t enough room (or I’m just a wordy, wordy girl). A snapshot of growing up in Northwest Yearly Meeting. It’s not perfect, but on that day at that time when I wrote the piece, the words were true: and I’m choosing to rest in that truth. (And the belief that if the piece were less-than-ideal, the editor (and friend) would have said so).