Another long break in this space. Offline of this blog, I did, in fact, keep writing, although not every day.

I continued the Writer’s Challenge for two cycles, and ultimately decided it wasn’t for me. My goal was to put my writing out there for useful, meaningful feedback. But what I really needed was feedback from writers I could trust…not necessarily other writers like me! In the end, the ROI just wasn’t there for the time spent on my end.

In an effort to force myself back into a state of challenge and risk, I did an experiment earlier this year where I painted daily for one month, and wrote a poem for each painting, then published the entire thing on an instagram account.

It was humbling. It was scary. Because I want to be good. Really, really good. People who love me think I am good (as one does, if you love someone). It’s not ego that drive the desire to be excellent, truly. I just don’t want to answer Mary Oliver’s question about my one wild and precious life with waste. If there is a better way or medium for me to examine my thoughts, wrestle with the questions that refuse to scatter when I shoo them away, pour out this fullness of color and concept and love and grief that springs up in me all the time…I want to find it. I want to do it.

But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. I really don’t. Sometimes, in any part of my life. What a relief when someone put a name to “imposter syndrome” because man, does that capture my feelings to a T. It is completely irrational, which is what makes it so difficult to battle. I can logically list out my skills and abilities, the mastery of which have led to success in multiple settings and to varying degrees. But the whisper creeps in…did I really know what I was doing, or did I get lucky? Do I have everyone fooled? And when that ends…what then?

If I sit in the morning stillness and think, who am I at this moment, it is likely I will feel a youthful inadequacy that clearly does not match up with my age. My husband had a business partner who, when asked his age, would answer, “chronological or biological?” His physical and mental health (biological) belied his age (chronological). I often feel a complete disconnect between my chronological and biological selves. Sometimes that is a good divide, as I tend to have an optimistic viewpoint that refuses to let chronology determine how life unfolds. Other times, it feeds that feeling of inadequacy. I’ve been a “fake it ’til you make it” lady for the better part of 30 years, but at what point do you call it – “I made it!” – and lay that down?

I have a deep internal faith and relationship that I don’t like to explicitly put out into the general world. It is too real, meaningful, grace-driven, love-based to open up to the great internet masses; for me, it is best shared on a personal basis rather than thrown out for the wolves to attack. But that faith includes an understanding of my value to One who created me, exactly me, as I am. A verse that comes to mind for me in a regular cadence is “…taking every thought captive in obedience to Christ” (2 Cor 10:5). If I feel – know – that I was created, individually and specifically, then thoughts that push back against my value have to be taken captive.

Genuine assessment that results in honest conclusion that you actually don’t know what you are doing is fair, wise, and part of an examined life (because no, not everyone can know how to do everything). There are many, many people doing damage everyday because they refuse to conduct such an assessment (or don’t have the courage, intelligence, or encouragement to do so). But I think of how many of us there are, walking through our days allowing that insidious whisper of “you don’t know what you are doing” to dull the colors of our contributions to our communities in our homes, workplaces, schools, relationships.

However, there’s another part of me that hears that whisper, comes to a standstill, and then says…so? So what if I don’t know what I’m doing? Does anybody know what they are doing? Is the measure of life well spent really based on achieving expertise or success? Or is the miracle and beauty of life BEING and DOING?

When I’m brave, I see clearly that the whisper is a lie – not that I actually do know what I’m doing, but a lie that having it figured out and buttoned up and foolproof means absolutely anything. If I want to write, or paint, or create, I should do it. I should just do it. And how anyone else feels about that is completely irrelevant.

I recently found proof of this when going through several boxes of memories and unearthed a poem I wrote, more than 30 years ago. I don’t remember but can only imagine the level of courage I summoned to write and gift this to my then boyfriend, now husband. In rereading it, I am amazed at prescient it was. There was no way for me to know this, and yet, something in me felt it and put it to paper with hope. So I leave this rambling, inconclusive post with this:

Untitled, 1994