“Sorry, Younger Self.”

A curation of August journal excerpts…

I feel like apologizing to my twenty-year-old self for not keeping my word to her. For not keeping the dream alive, the heart safe, the mind strong, the songs heard…

“I’m too many things.”

That’s what came out of my mouth a few days ago while I sat in my room, surrounded by clutter and chores without, bombarded by multiple roles and dreams and responsibilities within. It gets pretty weighty in this mind of mine!

Wife. Mom. Writer. Runner. Missionary. Homeschool Teacher. Musician. Non-Profit director. Mental health patient. Women’s health patient. Step-mom. Tenant. Homemaker. On and on…

Somewhere, deep down, struggling to breathe, is just a girl in jeans, playing keys and lighting up rooms, hoping for a big break and a bright future. Carefree, confident, virginal.

Songs flowed freely, along with laughter, creativity and drive.

I’m forty-seven. I’m tired and sad, even when it doesn’t show. Maybe sometimes my “introspection” is depression dressed up as “scholarly,” and vice-versa. Maybe my “independance” is loneliness dressed up as “quiet concentration” or “work flow.”

(I’m writing this sitting on tan leather in a coffee shop, sipping a mocha, dressed smart, ears plugged with brilliant music.)*

To the public I look relaxed and productive, save, perhaps, the speed at which I write. Prolific or frantic? They can decide.

But really, I’m just as lost as found. My home is empty, though clean, now. I had to get out of it for a while. But? Isolation doesn’t limit itself to one environment or blank spaces. There are nine other people sitting at this shop. I’m still alone.

I’ve been pouring words on pages for decades and still can’t quite put my finger on what I’m saying or doing here (on the planet).

Sometimes “purpose” is so simple. Other times it seems un-reachable, un-findable, or just down-right too exhausting to keep trying for.

And I get it. I’m a Christian. My purpose is His kingdom. But what else under that banner? What are things still to be discovered, expressed, enjoyed in this life that are unique to my journey? When God formed me, what more did He have in mind? Or what instead?

How to narrow down who I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to do in this season? What’s in my wheelhouse? I feel like I do a hundred things at ten percent. I need to do a few things at a hundred percent. Full energy, whole heart.

I was supposed to sing. And I did. But the reverberations of thirty-year-old songs I wrote in another lifetime don’t satisfy who I still ache to be-who I miss being…who I missed being.

On one hand, I made it farther than I could have planned. On the other hand, I never made it to the places I had always planned to go, creatively or literally.

The phrase “crawling out of myself” came to mind today, as something to write. A book? A blog? A letter to myself? Something to describe all of this “me” that’s left, waiting to spill out into the world. Waiting to come out of hiding. To wake up from a long hybernation that threatens to just deepen into death.

“I’m still here!”

I want to shout to the world.

I think about new generations, living under the grand shadow of technology and the light-speed of social media and self-made stars.

Do I have an artist-tribe woven into that crowd? Could I still find acceptance, or help someone? Who could I possibly collaborate with or stand out to? I don’t even know where to submit questions these days.

And I have a lot of questions…

How do I find the door back in? Where even is it? I can see dusty, old, closed doors behind me. I can also see some still open that only lead back to a past-a time that is over-an attic of memories or worse, wishes that never came true. Stages never played. Awards never received. Contracts never signed.

Just because I’m “this” now, doesn’t mean I can’t be “that” anymore, does it? Does taking up my cross mean hardly ever feeling fully alive? Shouldn’t it mean the opposite? What to make of the “abundant life” that was promised?

Maybe I just need to “die” a little more. Maybe worlds are colliding. Am I longing to be part of something I don’t really belong to, or is the longing evidence of un-fulfilled dreams of God still beating in my heart?

Right now, right this moment, all I want to do is sing into a mic for an audience; some audience.

I am bursting to sing, to share my voice. I need to let it out. The tea kettle is at full steam, with no one to hear the whistle.

How many other “Jessies” are out there, feeling lost in the shuffle? It’s hard to “make a splash” in an ocean so big, when you have drifted out so far. I wonder if it’s worth it to start the hard work of paddling back, splashing, singing, shouting, trying to make some noise when culture is already so much louder now.

In some ways I feel like I am not actually me. Just a body carrying my potential, my “real self” around, like a closed container, keeping valuable contents stored safely inside. Somehow it doesn’t feel safe, though. It’s more “child locked in a dark closet” and less “money in a bank vault.”

Sounds and certainty…

And why have I just listened to “How Deep is Your Love,” the Jacob Collier version, ten times in a row? What is it about that performance and the haunting audience participation that stirs the kindest of jealousies? Why him? Why certain people, certain sounds? Why certain things?

Perhaps the things most “certain” to me are the hardest to remember and articulate in commonality, daily situations, settings and circumstances.

Coping takes the wheel. Dreams get buckled into the backseat. We survive the day, get where we need to go, do what we have to do. We come back home and dream while we sleep-the only time left for dreaming.

What to do with this river raging within with nowhere to go? Maybe the dams are self-inflicted. Maybe I just gave up. Did I forget who I was because of who I was trying to become? Maybe I re-invented myself beyond recognition.

Somewhere in the attic, there must be a mirror old enough to show me what I’m supposed to look like; remind me who I really am. I could keep ignoring it, or I could climb the ladder and try to find myself.

I may need to borrow the flashlight of someone’s courage. I may need some glue for a broken mirror. I will probably put some tissues in my pocket to catch inevitable tears. But I think I’ll take a look.

Apologies are much better in person.

*https://youtu.be/1_7xSwEC71A?si=4xbrrtDrLNnpzaKB