Clarity

I woke up at six this morning, too late to say goodbye to Knute who was out the door at the crack of dawn to get a jump start on his very busy Friday.

I crept downstairs to get my first cup of coffee, tiptoeing over the creaky spots on the stairs. My attempts at total silence were futile; as I crept back up the stairs, Huck was tumbling out of his room with a fistful of K'nex blocks that he was using to build - as he told me - the ultimate plane.

"Morning mom!" he called as he headed downstairs, a big smile across his face. That boy never wakes up grumpy.

I gave him a quick hug and reminded him that everyone else was still asleep (so be quiet, ok? I whispered in his ear), then headed back to bed to sip my cup of coffee and read for a few minutes. It didn't take long for me to notice how puffy my eyes felt.

I hopped out of bed again (this time for good), grabbed my workout gear and tossed down a Zyrtec. I don't normally need allergy medicine but as the allergy/asthma doc mentioned yesterday at Becky's appointment, this year has been one of the worst he's seen for pollens and mold.

Within about twenty minute, while I was twirling away on the elliptical in the basement, I noticed my eyes felt a bit better already. I silently praised the glories of OTC Zyrtec. It's amazing how quickly one of those tiny pills works.

Wouldn't it be great, I wondered, my mind skip-hopping over free associations as I sweated it out, if you get the same kind of relief and clarity in all the areas of your life just as easily?

All the questions that plague me late at night when my insomnia flares starting popping up, one after another.

Am I doing the right things as a mother?

As a wife?

As a Christian?

What about this blogging thing? What am I doing here and here? What are my goals?

And what about writing? REALLY writing?


That last one is the cloudiest question of all, one I dearly wish I could answer with certainty, confidence, clarity.

But here's the thing - I cannot answer that.

Will the hours I spend writing produce a sellable manuscript?

Will the sacrifices I'll need to make to find the time to write be worth it in the long run?

Will my words matter?

{insert shoulder shrug}

I don't know.

And that, my friends, is the paralyzing, crippling rub.

But one thing is clear to me:

I cannot not try.

Because in the end, someday {hopefully} far in the future when my life winds down and comes to a close, I want it to be known to those whom I will leave behind that through my words, I consciously made the choice to turn my back on doubt, uncertainty, fear.