Come Back

Sometimes I think that my child self knew more about what I was meant for in this life than my adult self does. Somehow things that I have already dismissed as silly childhood desires tend to come back when I’m not even looking for them. In my earliest memories I remember telling people that when I grew up I wanted to be a ballerina. Where that desire came from I have no idea, because I don’t think that at that point I really understood what being a ballerina was about. I never even took ballet lessons. Recently, however, I realized how much I love to dance and the natural ability that I have to quickly learn dances. Sometimes I’m even tempted to find the nearest dance studio and sign up just to see how I would do. Maybe I missed my calling as a dancer, who knows. I do want to keep dancing for fun for the rest of my life, and when I meet a guy that knows how to swing dance or salsa dance he is immediately more attractive than he was before I knew that about him. Somehow the desire to dance was planted in my heart long ago before I had even tried to dance.

As I got older, I began to consider careers that made a little more sense for me, since I was never going to actually take ballet lessons. A creative vein still ran through me, and I decided I wanted to be a writer. I loved the way that writers looked at life, noticing the little details and appreciating them in a different way than everyone else. I remember walking around and thinking in my head creative ways to describe everything around me. I even came up with narrative for my own life. Then in 10th grade I had to do a research project on a career and I realized that being a writer meant my life would be full of deadlines and hours at the computer by myself, and though some people would probably enjoy working at home in their pajamas, that sounded so very boring to me. I decided then that writing was not for me. I moved on and I never looked back. That is, until recently. I read a book about celebrating life and the style of the author reminded me of my own writing style. I started musing over the idea of writing my own collection of stories just for fun. The idea settled into my mind and I would randomly bump into it throughout the next few months, but I continued to brush it off. I had not written anything that was not a school assignment for at least half a decade so I was sure that my writing would be awful. It probably is as far as I know, but the idea would not go away. It kept biting at me, reminding me that it was there. It was like a rock that I forgot about and stubbed my toe on every time I passed by it. Finally I decided to actually pay attention to it, and here I am. Writing. Doing what I had already concluded was not meant for me. Maybe I was too hasty when I concluded that long ago.

I like the way that writing makes me think, makes me look at life. When I write I think about the full picture, the purpose of life and where everything fits. I also think about the little details, the small moments that I gloss over if I don’t pay attention to and how wonderful those moments are when I grab them and focus on them. Writing makes me really live my life instead of going through the motions. I pay attention to the present instead of waiting for future moments like graduation or marriage. I simply cannot be detached from life when I write or the writing is dry and empty. So I’m learning that I don’t always know what’s best for me. I don’t always know who I am or what I’m meant for because when I decided I couldn’t be a ballerina or I would hate writing I didn’t fully understand myself and why I loved those things, why they were good for me. Next time I am quick to decide what is best for me I will instead put things aside instead of dismissing them altogether, because I never know when something will come back and I will once more need it in my life.