The number of days left — including tonight — until I will have blogged daily for two years…minus a small hiccup last summer when the Palm Springs heat lulled me to sleep without warning…and without writing. Oops.
Eighteen years ago I was eighteen. But I can only say that for thirteen more days…then 37 will arrive.
Eighteen years ago I was going off to college and had so few cares in the world it wasn’t even funny. For the most part, this is still the case. Dreams unfulfilled, however, yes. Things could obviously be far worse, though, and I try to remember to count my lucky stars every night. God willing, maybe I’ll see some of those dreams come to fruition in the next eighteen. A girl can hope.
Eighteen years ago there was first love. Eighteen years later love has more layers, more depth — and more risk. I still think it’s worth it, but hope the other person will, too. Only time will tell.
Eighteen years ago I felt like I ran towards a lot. I ran with open arms and an open heart. I stumbled and I got back up again. Eighteen years later I can say that I’ve almost mastered the art of running away, and I rarely stumble when it comes to that. I find myself feeling vulnerable when my heart is open, so it’s barely ajar most days.
The years can take a toll, but the years also hold lessons and light. Eighteen years ago I never would’ve thought that I’d form a two-year habit, and I don’t know what will become of it once the next eighteen days are up. What I’ve received from it isn’t something I was looking for, nor is it something that would’ve found me had I gone down any other path in this life — because the path would’ve held other things. It would’ve held less quiet time, less reflection, less hearing myself think and less doing. With a noisier life comes a more crowded life, for better or for worse. Maybe there would’ve been writing, but it would’ve been different.
Tonight, for Thanky’s origin and for reading a devotion almost two years ago that revealed two years of gratitude, I am thankful.