Being A Writer

— Dana

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my very first blog post. This morning, I took some time to read a few of my posts from five years ago. And right now, I’m trying to happily pick up this blog again, knowing that I’m not who I once was in my previous posts. I am somehow, through the process of writing, a new creation…and I’m still searching for the boldness and proper language to voice all of life through my medium of choice.

And the reality is I’m a little unsure as to who I am right now…especially as a writer…and I’m working through that. When you write for so long about truly vulnerable things, it leaves one feeling a little frail around the edges. Lately, I feel a bit like an antique book that’s filled with pages of yellowed corners that break off when you turn them. I have a collection of little yellowed corners…and I keep sifting them through my hands wondering if they are worth repairing or if they are just par for the course.

Is this just what it feels like to be a writer? What’s really funny is that I don’t consider myself to be a writer. I just like to write. Does that make me a writer? I go through times in my life when I don’t want to write. It is a hard motion of laying down one thing and picking up another, knowing full well (at some point), I may have to go back and pick up that thing that had to be laid down for a while. This is life as a writer, and it feels a bit messy at times.

When I think about it, my everyday life currently feels a bit sloppy as Aaron and I wrestle with unsung dreams and patience and learning the art of contentment with what we have been given. Using the resources we currently have and believing them to be enough. This is probably my real issue with life and writing. Letting what is currently be enough.

Letting a blog be enough when I feel like I should write a book. Letting my home be enough when I want to be somewhere else. Letting paid off student loans be enough when I want my savings account to be filled. Letting the city be enough when I miss the solitude of the country. Letting one child be enough when I want a house full of children. Letting married with one child be enough when I dream of being a free-spirited globetrotter. Letting grilled cheese and soup and cheap jelly with high fructose corn syrup be enough. Letting Value Village clothes be enough. Letting mistakes be enough. Letting regrets be enough. Letting the imperfect be enough. Letting this Kangas Family be enough…without the need to compare and contrast and suppose why we are not like them or like them or like them over there.

With each sentence I write, I feel like I am unclogging a drain. Pulling the deposits of hair away that have wrapped themselves into knots. The hair that I ALWAYS despise. The hair that goes ignored because it is unseen. It is down there…choking back life with its fake tendrils…keeping the artistic streams from flowing and damming up the tunnels of expression. And I unwind it with every utterance of the phrase “just be enough”.

Enough.

It is like water to refresh my soul as I make my way through this one and only life. This life eternal. This life that has no need for hurry, rush or envy. And as I humbly think about the word enough, I think I can say my writing is going well and that what I am is enough right now.

This post is enough.

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