The Risk it Takes to Blossom

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." - Anais Nin

I'd first read this quote as it hung unceremoniously in a public bathroom while I washed my hands at a school for dental assisting - another one of my numerous, yet never-the-less passionate, career endeavors. The program was a quick five months, a relative microsecond compared to my four years studying history, my two studying education, my multiple semesters in post-graduate special education studies, time in real estate school, and a tryst with bartending classes. A career student. Though, I have yet to place myself firmly behind the helm of any said career path, even now as I see my thirtieth year peeking furtively over the horizon.

I wouldn't say that I'm "floundering" about exactly, and I'm anything but lazy - a wife and mother of two toddlers with no less than a 3.9 GPA in any of my years in college and grad school, not to mention having had a multitude of jobs, and even businesses... - I'm just a lover of all things, and I easily see the potential in many avenues, finding it impossible to commit to any one. I wonder what one job or another might be like, commit myself to learning, get my hands dirty, love it, and leave it. And no regrets. And why should there be? It's my time, and no one else's, to spend.

Find a job and stick to it. Society's cruelest rule, when it is our very nature to branch out and experience all life has to offer. And as we grow, while the respected adults in our life say that we "can be anything we want to be" from one side of their mouth, the fine print that slithers out the other states that we are to pick something steady, something tangible, something "high in demand," and plant our feet onto the bottom rung of the ladder to a stable, safe life. And then the ballerina, the football MVP, the artist, and the president that marched proudly into adolescence, crawl into adulthood as the manifestation of something molded from the descriptions of a college catalog, parental pressure, and guidance counseling.

Don't get me wrong - there's no sin in finding a stable career, or even choosing one for practical reasons, but the sin is when you check your passion at the door - the things that we all used to daydream about until we were too smart to "know better" - and we never look back. Maybe that's why I'm happy being a "jack of all trades, a master of none," staying just one foot behind any threshold that must be crossed into full-blown career-dom. I have a firm hold on my passion, and I have since I was old enough to hold a pencil. Yet, there'd always been a bold line for me between "writing" and being a "writer," and even working as a freelance news reporter for ten years, or winning awards and scholarships for the very act of writing, I still had my reservations about using the latter word as part of an identity - that is, until this past summer.

I'd read a million inspirational quotes in my life, but for reasons I may never understand, it was that single Anais Nin sentence, hung from the tacky floral pattern of bathroom wallpaper in the unlikeliest of places, in which lay the moment I was able to call myself a writer for the first time. I was almost halfway through my first novel at the time, (and God willing, only the first of many novels), an experiment and experience that has been one of the best of my life, and throughout, it carried with it such a distinct feeling of happiness, of joy, just to write - even if it would never make me a dime. And this is how I realized that life wasn't only about the practical and the logical. It also had to be about the abstract, and the absurd.

I was then able to commit myself to the goal of becoming an author, embracing what it was that made me happiest - that is, besides the unconditional joy given to me by my beautiful children. The phrase "pipe dream" was no longer in my (growing) vocabulary. I was ready to brave the rocky road of rejection and opportunity, criticism and praise, heartbreak and hope, failure and success, and I wouldn't stop until the journey took me to wherever I was meant to be. But as the excitement of my revelation inflated inside me, I knew it was far more significant than simply choosing "not to give up" on a lifelong dream. I wasn't just newly motivated, I was genuinely happier.

I was in a "Writing for Many Roles" class in college when our professor explained to us that we each have "an eye" through which we view ourselves and the world, shaped by how we define ourselves - be it female, or a mother, or American, or black or white or blue... but as we went around our semi-circle describing our individual "eyes," all the definitives seemed to be merely physical, and too obvious, to me. What about viewing the world through the eye of "an artist," even if you'd never sold a painting. Or "a violinist," even if you'd only taken it out of the attic once a year. They say "we are not what we do," but what if what we do is truly a part of our souls? And what about viewing the world from the perspective that makes us happiest, most whole, no matter how little sense it seems to make to the function of our daily life? What about resurrecting the feeling of the first time you twirled yourself around in front of a mirror in a tutu, and making it a part of who you are now? A part of how you teach your children. Of how you love your spouse. Of how you pour your coffee in the morning. Would that not be one of the greatest secrets of finding happiness?

When I left that bathroom and went home that otherwise-unspectacular night, I felt I was able to see things differently. Anais Nin's words were not only poetic, but were of sound advice. A creed to living life. It's harder not to take risks, even than it is to fail. To never try to "blossom" into what we dream to be is a death all its own. But to know this only in hindsight would be the greatest tragedy. I found that although I was very much passionate about many of the things I'd worked on over the past decade, nothing made me happier than writing, and I decided I would drive it as a "vehicle" down any other avenue that may present itself to me in the future. Many things may change - in fact, I count on it - but I would carry it with me, or better, let it carry me, as I moved through life with renewed conviction.

I am a writer. And maybe a teacher, a dental assistant, a bartender, a real estate agent, a mother, a wife, or perhaps even unemployed. But always a writer. And it doesn't make me more important, or better, because of it. But it makes me whole. And for that, I embrace it with an undying tenacity.