It’s an odd thing: writing has been a source of both intense frustration and supremest enjoyment at so many times in my life. Some of the most anguished, visceral memories from my undergraduate years have to do with late nights struggling over a writing seminar paper or my thesis… and many of the most freeing, exciting ones from my high school years have to do with that life that now seems so far away, when I fancied myself a poet. Or even in the joy and accomplishment associated with finishing, perfecting, and breathing life into those very papers and the thesis that I thought threatened to take my very lifeblood and sanity. Not to mention my consistently infrequent but ever-continuing journaling habits, as a way to process the world. Growing from childhood “Dear Diary, today I met a boy…” entries (name that reference… yes I just went there) to my now pseudo-poetic, oftentimes partially illustrated, nonlinear ramblings in my precious unlined moleskine. Writing is in integral part of who I am and how I interact with the world.
Yet, I feel frustrated in my inability to do it often enough or well enough anymore to feel satisfied. I continually wish that I could pursue being a contemporary Renaissance woman, intellectually curious and academically involved in researching and thinking through multiple fields, and engaged in multiple artistic passions at the same time. At the same time, I let everyday life muck up the time I might have to really chase these passions, and feel almost guilty about doing it; that somehow, if I put too much time into developing something that isn’t singing/acting/language study/dreams of arts diplomacy (ok, so the diplomacy one is a bit of a curveball, admittedly)… if I put too much time into other things, I’ll never succeed in the primary career which I’m chasing. Of course, I have friends who buck this trend and give me hope: the businesswoman with the successful violin/orchestra management career, the tenor who’s a phenomenal writer, the embryology researcher who teaches yoga and still maintains a performing schedule as a jazz drummer… They do it. So why do I struggle so much to do the same? Being interdisciplinary and over-involved has always been all but a trademark of mine. So what’s going on? Age? (ugh.) Coming to another point of life where I have to over-specialize a bit to succeed in any of the things I’m trying to do? God’s hand directing me into the areas where I can most truly thrive and have the biggest impact or to live out the plan He’s got for me, even though I can’t see it? Who knows, really. Not me.
But I do know this: I miss writing. I miss practicing yoga. I miss sketching on a regular basis. I miss feeling proficient in and dedicated to these other areas. These things, I can find time to do. I can make that time. And I only hope that, in doing so, they might strengthen and improve my artistry in all areas.
Here’s to the new practicing routine.
