When I open a word document, I'm overwhelmed with the potential of the story about to be written. Simultaneously, I'm inundated with fear and excitement. As I've become aware of my growing number of readers, a blank word document induces fear of not impressing them, or failing to meet their expectation of me as a writer. At the same time, though, my fingers love racing across the keyboard, my heart pulsates with excitement, and the unwritten story begs me to simply start. Ultimately, the fear of writing a bad story dissipates and culminating ideas in my head manage to fuse into a word document in a lyrical way. As a writer, a blank word document holds all the power or none of the power, but I'm, inevitably, left to harness the power.
Per some long reflection and resulting tough to make choices, my life has become a blank word document. Months ago, I had every intention of going to Haiti in August. I planned to teach at an International School and transition from "behind the scenes" work to "on the ground" work with a nonprofit. When my inbox notified me that I received the job in Haiti, I was initially really excited at the prospect of living in another country, a country that I loved and cared so much about. As time passed, though, I felt absolutely uneasy about moving to Haiti. I considered how isolated I felt in Texas, how annoying it was to wait in the doctor's office for three hours, how it was so hard to run with stray dogs chasing me, how I missed seasons and the inherent nature to have an activate outdoor lifestyle. It may be selfish, but I'm certain I'd feel the same sort of isolation living in Haiti for two years.
From my first days in South Texas, I've been trying to figure out "what's next?" Prior to coming here, I was always anticipating the next thing, counting down the days until I could take another adventure. A few weeks ago, I started asking myself, "what's next?" in reference to Haiti. I haven't even moved there and I'm already thinking about my time ending there. In essence, I felt like I was already counting down the days until I could do the "next" thing. Then, it occurred to me
I don't want to count down days anymore.
I'm not naive enough to think that the job I choose next will be my dream job or the job I'll stay in forever, but I do know for certain that wherever I am next, I want to be able to breathe it in and enjoy it. I feel as if my near constant moving has built me into the individual that I am and I'm so grateful for those experiences, but I want to start building something of my own. I want to find a place I love and stay there long enough to allow its story to infiltrate more than a few pages or a chapter of my own.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't have a plan. I have no idea what's next. I'm staring at the blank word document, simultaneously scared of the stagnant story that could potentially be written and also so stinking excited that the next story is going to be the best one yet.
This blank word document, my life, holds all the power or none of the power. I'll figure out how to harness the former, how to love it.
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