I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to blog anymore. I mean I want to blog, but I don’t want to just blog. I don’t want to just write either, or just be married or just go to church or just keep my house clean or just make dinner.
I want to make something beautiful.
It seems like a subtle distinction, but I don’t think it is really that subtle. It might be a subtle change in language, but when it plays out in real life, I think it can be the difference between a life that falls flat and one that jumps of the page.
I think it can be the difference between a life of boredom and a life of whimsey.
I think it can be the difference between a life full of joy, and one full of Prozac and pointless suffering.
Lately I’ve been paying attention. I’ve been watching people who are just going through the motions, and people who are making something beautiful. And the most surprising part of what I’ve noticed is that the differences aren’t what you’d think they’d be.
Lives full of beauty aren’t lives full of perfection. They’re lives full of intention.
Lives that are empty aren’t empty because they lack physical possessions. They’re empty because they lack direction.
And to be honest, I feel like I fall on both sides of the spectrum, depending on which day you catch me. In some moments, I know what I am working towards. If you catch me at the right time, I know what I am building, what I am creating with my own two hands—and I’m certain it is beautiful.
Other times, I’m just putting one foot in front of the other. I’m just following the “rules” I think I’m supposed to follow to get some obscure “reward” at the end.
And although I’ve fought with depression all of my life—although anxiety has been like a vindictive friend always knocking at my door—I doubt have to explain to you which days the depression is heavier, which days the anxiety worsens.
I doubt I have to explain what days it feels easy to get out of bed.
I don’t want to go through the motions. I don’t want to just blog, or just write, or just travel or just sing or just show up to church on Sunday morning. I want to make something beautiful.
I want to create something enduring, something that feels good when you hold it—like running your hand across an expensive piece of fabric, or the tears that run down your face when a film moves you from the theater’s seat to somewhere else entirely.
I want my life to feel like one of those stones you pick up while going for a stroll down a deserted beach—smooth, but at the same time, heavy, sturdy and lasting.
I want an heirloom that can be passed down to my daughters.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to just write, just sing, just teach, just be a mom, just go through the motions of modern living. I want to make something beautiful.