This weekend, we found some old train tracks, by the river. I love train tracks. They remind me of my high school days, speeding to miss the train to get to class on time. They run alongside a cafe downtown that we like: a slow, steady rumble every time they roll pass. I also love them because they remind me of where we are going and alternatively, where we have been.
My tracks are growing stronger, year by year. More steady, more secure. One piece may be larger than the next, but they fit well together, forming a familiar path. I’ll be turning twenty six this fall, and more than anything, I want to be grounded in who I am. I want to write a book. I want to explore a new city or country. I want to love my husband well. I want to spend more nights and mornings on my back porch, and less in front of my tv. I want to hear more stories, shake more hands. I want to experience more love and laughter with those I see day in and out. I want more creativity, more space for making something I believe in.
I grew up believing that creativity was not meant for me. That only certain people are called to be creators. That only truly special beings can create stories or paintings or structures. Thankfully, I have met some beautiful people who taught me otherwise: who believed in me and gracefully told me to create, because a Creator created me to do so. These people are my heroes.
Without them, I’d have given up on where I’m going. My tracks would have stopped at a destination of doubt and fear and anxiety. I’d have turned over my pen and paper, and stopped writing. Because I never would have believed a creative life was meant for me.
I want to walk along my train tracks well. I want to chug along peacefully, knowing full well where I’m headed. I want to carve out a steady path, worn in and solid, built on bravery & love. I want to see familiar faces and spaces, but also new ones. I want to see a life well lived along these tracks.