December of 2018 will always be a special type of meaningful to me. It was the moment in my life that I decided to ascribe a little bit more purpose to the simple choices that I make. I don’t have crazy testimonies — not yet — but I have more purpose pumping through my veins in one day than I typically do in a week. I decided to start writing more. It’s a scary thought sharing words with you that don’t have much to do with anything important. But they’re words that might hold me accountable to my potential.
17 Dec 2018 —
I feel storyless. I want to start being storyful. Last week I averaged hours plural on my phone per day which is horribly embarrassing to me. I’m going to get off my phone this week and maybe my life will become more storyful. I want to get risky and take big steps to challenge myself. I think I’ll start by significantly narrowing my possessions. Risky? Maybe not. Uncomfortable. Absolutely. But eventually getting rid of things won’t feel uncomfortable, maybe it’ll feel normal. I want to get rid of all the excess in my life. Like my iPhone and my grudges. All the unnecessary baggage.
After writing these thoughts, I packed my bag with 5 shirts, 5 bottoms, and a dress. I have a lot more room for plenty more clothes in my pack, but I figured I’d challenge myself instead. So I said goodbye to a couple bottoms and a couple shirts. That made me feel a bit more storyful.
18 Dec 2018 —
I love writing, but I never thought I was all that good at it. I’m traveling this year, so my pen meets the paper significantly more than it used to, which I enjoy. I read the other day, “Writers like to have written.” Maybe that’s a posture I’ll assume once I’ve crossed the threshold of actually considering myself a writer. For now, I write — and I actually tithe more time to writing than I presume most choose to — but I’m in no hurry to title myself a writer. Maybe that’s because as I write this, I’m having fun. I don’t want to “like to have written.” I started this entry without that quote in mind. What I really have to say is that a few moments ago I had the idea that maybe I am actually gifted in writing. I’m not sure, because I’m more inclined to assign quality to ones writing not according to the words he or she allocates to his or her paper, but rather the syntax that his or her brain opts toward. The current by which it flows. The idea occurred to me when I read a sentence (written by an another whom a trusted friend of mine endorsed) and immediately confiscated a portion of his credibility when he put two fragments in their opposite positions and interrupted them by a comma. I love commas more than most people who write, but commas don’t belong between two fragments unless the writer is delivering a sentence that reads as a fairy tale. You’re probably reading this and have not even the slightest impression of what I am referring to, but the idea is that I had an opinion. Maybe I’m a writer because I had an opinion. Perhaps I’ll write a book one day.
If you follow me on Instagram, maybe you saw recently that I dedicated a journal to “things that I could do”. I’ve dreamt bigger in the last four months than I have in my entire life, so I have to keep track of all the crazy things that my imagination latches onto. Five days ago, I added, “write a book”. We’ll see. But I thought that if I told you, maybe I’d actually do it.
2 Dec 2018 —
You know when the corner of a page is folded? You’re borrowing a book from your roommate, or better yet, your mom. Someone you trust. You get to page 53 and the corner is folded over. Nothing is highlighted or underlined, but you know to expect something profound. Something beautiful or something that’s worth reading four times over to make sure you got its full meaning. Regardless of if you ever find “the” thing, every line seems to be “it”. I want to live as though every last page of my life book was folded at the corner. I want to turn the page of every morning and be as expectant I am when I find the 53rd page of my roommate’s book folded over.
I read a really important book that I need you to read titled “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years” by Don Miller. It taught me to live in folded-page expectation every single day of my life. It taught me to pick whatever option that would yield a better story. Suddenly I started watching more sunrises and swapping more stories with strangers and complimenting more smiles.
