“Tonight I saw the children in their rooms,
Little flowers all in bloom—
Burning suns and silver moon.”

~ Andrew Peterson

Tomorrow is my 28th birthday and life is messy.

At 28 I thought I would have more or less of life figured out. By the time I turned 30 I envisioned I would have it all together. My life would be straightforward and purposeful.

Life isn’t.

Life as it appears is incredible messy and complicated.

We are managing our lives with ‘to do’ lists and bills to pay, meetings to attend and emails to write. We manage our diets and our bedsheets. We keep on moving all the while carrying so many things in our life. Lugging around all the words and aspersions anyone has ever cast on us, with no place, it feels, to lay them down.

Where do you place the questions you carry?

The heartache and the joy? Your quiet worries? Where can you let yourself spill over into truth as messy and new and raw as it sometimes feels?

One of the hardest thing in life I believe, is laying down all those things that we carry. All those desperate attempts to save our selves from heartache, idleness and self contempt. We cover our true and messy selves with as much charisma and articulation we can muster. We carefully build a glamorous window into our life for others to see and hope people are happy to window shop. And we have become experts at keeping them out.

I believe we must begin to unravel ourselves. We must unwind the tight little ball we have worked ourselves into and release it to God, knowing He will not solve all our problems straight away but He is in the process of untangling who we are becoming.

At 28 years old I am realising life is a rather messy place but I am learning that that’s ok.

I am not aiming for a pretty life, I am aiming for release.

I equate writing to what it must feel like for a person to surf on a large wave.

The feeling can be the most exhilarating thing in the world but firstly one needs to find the wave, and then secondly be able to catch it. Both of these also require some skill. This has led me to the conclusion that if writing was what I did to earn a living, I would in fact not be able to pay my bills. And I can completely forget about pro surfing for that matter as well.

I do actually enjoy writing. I like the meditative nature of it. The in and out, the twisting and turning, the typing and deleting of vague thoughts into actuality. Its all very therapeutic.

But so many things stand in the way. They purposely distract me from the stillness, from focus. Sleep, TV, Facebook, work. They cry out for attention like a baby that needs to be fed. Some days I just can not bring myself to write anything.

The thought of having to think and to articulate tires me. I sit at my computer well intentioned, with all the right tabs open and its like having ADD. I’ll remember that I haven’t scooped the cat litter today, I should call the dentist or I’ll think about the last conversation I had and daydream what it would of been like if I had said something funnier or wittier. Or even vaguely helpful.

I’ve been reading ‘Bird by bird’ by Anne Lamott and she recommends breaking the task down. Just write about one thing, write one paragraph and that’s all you need to attempt. Just get something down. Don’t worry if its messy, incoherent or rambling. Just get it down and fix it later. Messiness is what first drafts are for. So this, I am going to try.