Our lives are filled with seasons. Some fly smoothly by like glass. Others feel like the ground beneath us contains shards of glass. The one constant is the continuum of allowing each season to roll in and roll out like the tide.
I haven’t liked this season. I have a long-term toxic relationship with summer anyway. I shrink from the blazing hot rays of the sun like a vampire. The humidity makes my hair and toes curl. I’m physically uncomfortable. It’s best to be emotionally comfortable while physically uncomfortable, but this season I’ve not had that luxury. From the inside out, I have felt horrid.
I’m not young though, and that’s a good thing. I know that difficult seasons all end if I live long enough. That’s what I’m doing this summer. I’m living long enough and I’m allowing myself to become.
The definition of become is to begin to be. And, I believe I am always in a forward motion to become. As I begin to be anything, I feel discomfort. I like the benefits of personal growth, but would prefer it to be infused into my veins rather than reach it through emotional acrobatics.
This summer season has been one full of change and uncertainty. I moved in June and that’s a good thing. I’ve literally been dreaming of living in an apartment like this my whole life. And, as soon as I got it, I lost my job.
I took a few weeks after I lost my position to process the entirety of what took place. I let it sink in and let myself relax more than I have in years. Finally, the pressure cooker, time-sensitive environment I’d been in for so long, stopped churning. All that steam released and left me in a little wet puddle wondering what the hell my future would look like.
Like a locomotive, I’ve steamed through July and mid-August – having a good day and then a devastating one after that. All the while though, I would sit at my laptop and write SOMETHING every day. I wrote and erased and wrote and erased until I realized I’d written my way into becoming.
This morning, I woke up happy. I made a cup of coffee and took it outside. The air was chilly. I sat there with my eyes closed, letting myself feel the emotional and physical relief that the cool, crisp air brings me.
A new season is around the bend and it is my favorite season. The leaves will turn orange and red and yellow. The fire will not burn me, but will instead blind me with the visual delight of Fall.
And with every single fiber in my soul, I know what my future will hold.
I am a writer. Inside, outside, and upside-down, nobody can pull a keyboard out from under me unless I let them. So, even though, I’ve been doing it all my life, this horrible season allowed me to finally become what I’ve been all along. A writer.