Buried Dreams and Maybe-Dreams…Oh! And Why I Was Dressed Like a Prairie Girl
“If you’re not green or growing, you’re dead or dying.” —Not sure who actually said this first, but I attribute it to one of my mentors from years ago.
I have been a reader since before I could read.
I remember sitting on my living room floor, flipping through a picture book, not knowing what the words actually said, making up stories for each page.
Maybe I wasn’t so much a reader as a writer.
When I was seven years old, our school had Character Day which meant we got to dress up like our favorite book characters. I chose to dress up like Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was obsessed with the Little House on the Prairie series which the author had based on her real life adventures. But when I dressed up like Laura that day, I wasn’t dressing up like the character in the book; I was dressing up like the author. I wanted to be like her, wanted to write books like her.
But I was only seven. And there's a lot of learning and living that happens during those formative years when you are asked repeatedly, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
I find this question to be limiting. Why is it that we have to choose one thing to be when we grow up? Humans are vastly complicated. I'm proof of that, and my guess is so are you.
That same year that I dressed up like my hero because I wanted to be a writer, was the same year I decided I wanted to be a teacher. My teacher that year read us the story called "Stone Soup," and we actually made Stone Soup from stones the students had brought in.
In her class, we felt safe and loved. It was one of the first years that I was excited more than anxious about going to school, and by the end of the year, I was convinced that I would be a teacher someday.
But I still dabbled with becoming anything from lawyer to rock star to guitar technician, always searching for that elusive target for which many spend a lifetime aiming…my "calling."
Growing up in a Christian home, this was common language used to describe the profession or service you would provide to the world, the reason you were born, your life's purpose.
But eventually, I came back to teaching. And when I became a teacher, I felt so lucky. It felt right. I was good at it. I was sure I had found my calling. I thought I would teach forever.
But after a few years, I began to feel uncomfortable in my role as a teacher. I wondered, "How can this be if teaching is my calling?" What did it mean? This discomfort lead me to exploration which I did with much trepidation.
And this exploration eventually lead to us moving overseas, where we became missionaries.
But then, I became a mom.
And I was also a songwriter.
But I was also still a teacher.
And I was also a worship leader.
And I knew there was more yet to be uncovered, things I hadn't shared with others and how could I when I hadn't even discovered them myself? I just felt them there, buried inside of me.
And I found it hard to understand how all of these parts of me fit together. Which one from this list was "my calling" or had I missed it all together? That would explain why I never quite felt satisfied, never quite felt at home.
Thirty years have passed since that little girl dressed up like Laura Ingalls Wilder, the writer. I have been a student, teacher, missionary, wife, and mom. I've been a bookstore manager and food service worker. I’ve been a musician, songwriter, and worship leader for longer than all of those.
And still with all that living, and in all that time, there were small moments when I would think to myself, “I sure would like to write someday.”
But it was always a maybe-dream. One of those dreams that you think with a shrug of your shoulders, “maybe I’ll do that one day, but probably not because there are too many other ‘important’ things to do.” It’s those dreams that get buried by the needs and wants of others, our own expectations or those of others, the mountain of life’s responsibilities, grief, loss, heartache, and even the joys of life: kids, family, our “calling.”
However it happens, the maybe-dream gets buried. It gets buried so deep that it is almost forgotten. You grow numb to it. But every once in a while, you feel it there like a little spark trying to light a flame; you look inside yourself on occasion, when you get brave enough, and you see a little glimmer of something long buried…could there be some treasure there?
And you think, “maybe someday…maybe.” It's a lot of work, maybe too much, to dig up, and our fear of our own limitations causes us to stall out, and so it becomes more like the "maybe" we got as children from our parents, the one they used to avoid saying no because saying yes would require some work or sacrifice on their part that they weren't willing to do.
In either case, we all know that, "maybe," really means no.
And so, for me and I'm guessing for a lot of you reading this, the maybe-dreams never get pursued.
“I’m a teacher. I’m a mom. I’m a songwriter and musician so I’m supposed to write songs, not books or blogs. That's quite enough. I can't possibly do more things or be more than that."
This was the voice in my head. Yet I have journals and journals of thoughts and stories from my life, and I wrote each of them, loving the process, hoping that someday someone might read them and be encouraged or feel a little less alone, but I never allowed myself to even begin to dream of publishing something I wrote.
And then one day…
The death (or maybe dormancy) of one of my other BIG dreams, my definitely-not-maybe dreams, lead me to take a sabbatical which lead to another season of exploration. I had no idea at the time where the journey was taking me, and every time I tried to figure it out, I felt something inside say stop trying to figure it out.
Rest and Explore were my words for the season. So I did. I had so much white space. Too much to be comfortable.
During this time, a friend and mentor of mine (You can see her beautiful artwork here) recommended the book The Artist's Way and loaned me her copy.
The Artist’s Way is a 12 week course in “discovering and recovering your creative self.” I may share some more of my experiences here later, but one of the most life-changing things that came from reading and working through this course was remembering my long-buried dream of writing. In the past, my writing had been mostly for songs. Yet in this season, I was finding more joy in simply writing the words than trying to match them to music and forcing them into melodies for the sake of having written a song.
And so I started calling myself a writer. I invested in my “inner artist” by signing up for a writing community called Hope*Writers, created myself a desk area, and here I am starting a blog.
I am still trying to manage my expectations and figure out what this means for teaching and songwriting and all the other parts of who I have been, and how those fit with all the other parts of who I am now and who I hope to be. For now, I’m leaning in to the season, and trusting the process.
Like the quote at the beginning, if you’re not green and growing, you’re dead or dying. And so, here I am. Growing.
And, you know, I think my calling is growing right along with me, and maybe that's how it's meant to happen. Maybe callings are more expansive than I thought and they grow with us. Maybe digging up that dream of writing doesn't mean I lose all the other treasure. It's all still part of me.
Maybe it always has been.
It has taken me 30+ years to say this out loud, but it’s true.
I am a writer, and I’m so happy to be sharing my words with you.
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