My Accidental Book

Photo Credit: Me (via insta.gram)

My whole life has been a dress rehearsal for this moment.

The blocking was easy — going through the motions and remember where to stand, both in and out of the limelight. Learning the lines came next — there was always someone to convince of something. (Even if that someone was me.) I’ve spent years honing the many facets of my personality and various, interconnected talents. When I let these pieces click into place, the universe drew the curtain.

Sharp breath. Deep breath. Exhale.

Hunched against the corner on a rain-soaked bus, my mind wandered. (As it often does.)

It wandered into the familiar places of my psyche.

I thought about my son, sitting at home with his father, no doubt building that new furniture we bought last night. I thought about my husband — a deeply grounded, energetic man — and the dreams he’d whispered in my ear all those years ago.

I thought about my family. My brother, in his retail job on the other side of the bridge. My mother and father, back home. I thought about my clients; daydreamed about their online spaces and how to make sure they looked and functioned the best they could.

I eased myself into thinking about… myself.

Clarity spoke to me sometime before the new year. It came in the form of a trusted friend’s voice reminding me of why I do what I do. I let the clarity rattle around in my skull before writing it on paper, allowing it to manifest in my biznez by deeply acknowledging it. Superb, wonderful, beautiful people found me through Clarity.

Deep breath. Exhale.

Someone yelled from the back of the bus about the slow traffic. A couple pressed their heads together and smiled — ah, new love. The bus stopped suddenly and fought to catch my balance.

Balance. I used to be balanced. I used to put my thoughts and energies into doing a little bit of everything, with abandon. The joy of the challenge. The industrious nature of conquering something new and exciting. The impetuous glory of flipping off the universe.

Yeah right, like you can stop me. 

I angled myself to look outside at the glass skyscrapers. Baptism by rain — pieces of the city reborn by coastal storm.

We came to a stop outside of the train station. I stood outside, gazing upwards at nothing but sky. I felt… unwound.

I sought a lonely seat on the far end of the train, unaware of my impending epiphany. We gracefully arched forward, the wind whipping outside, rainwater threatening to break the glass and drown us all. Unsettling. Calming.

The book in my hands tore a painful hole through my practicality. It usurped the place where I put my fear. The little dictator that called herself Myself cried out as she fled from this improbability. Of course, I thought. Why didn’t I see this before?

But I had seen it before. I’d seen it my whole life. I’d seen it from the first time I picked up a yellow Number Two pencil and started scratching it against a piece of paper. I’d felt it from the first time I pieced together something resembling a narrative. (It currently resides in a box in my parents’ basement.)

All the pieces were falling into place. Rapidly. Painfully. Where had I been for the last seven years? In school? Pretending to be something I’m not? Pretending to be something I wanted to be? And now, the gears are shifting and the only speed I can go is fast.

I have to hold on.

The curtain is drawn. The butterflies I’m all too familiar with bubble up into my mouth and flutter their imaginary wings. I remember this feeling. I remember this stage. I know this play.

This is Act One.

Big thank you to Danielle LaPorte for making me believe in my writing once again. I’ll send you an advance copy.