I was going to post this morning, finally. I know, I know, it's been weeks. You've sweetly checked in now and then, wondering if anything else might appear. Thank you for doing that. But you see, I got scared. Over and over again, I was sure there was nothing I could say that was worth saying.
This happens a lot to me. Maybe, because you've seen me tell stories, or because you've read my blog, or because you've heard me talk about Waldorf education or something like that, you think that I am a confident, poised, unabashed person. Thanks for thinking that; it's very generous of you. But you see, I am anything but confident so much of the time. I'm a scaredycat, and it shows the most when I have to actually take some kind of action.
I've been a procrastinator for my whole life. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table, crying over assignments that were due the very next day, assignments given days or weeks before. For some, this is unthinkable; you just decide what needs to be done and do a little bit each day. You just start, just bite the bullet, just do it. When it comes time to start something, I am paralyzed. I cannot act, I cannot choose. There is a right choice, you understand, one right, true, perfect choice. And I sincerely doubt my ability to make it.
And so I just sit there, or I run away to do something -- anything -- else. If I don't act, then I cannot do the wrong thing, right? So, like Ivan Tsarevich's brothers when they approached the pillar in the picture, I choose to veer off the path. I want to be the hero of the adventure, but I end up being the ugly sister, the callous brother.
This morning, I was going to post something, but when I sat down at the computer, I froze. I couldn't move forward. I was struck with fear. What was I afraid of:
Ah, there it is! Afraid of being so wrong, no one can love me anymore, and that I would have failed everyone I love. Pretty big deal for one little blog post, but my brain and logic don't always acknowledge one another.
So I am posting. I am just acting, without giving myself a chance to overthink it. And maybe you will hate me, and maybe it is, indeed, trite and awful. But that will have to be as it is.
Hi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.