Casting Shadows

I glance at the calendar and gasp. The month is almost over! Not that I have any fondness for February, mind you, but still. There are so many things that I intended to get accomplished this month that are STILL there on my to-do list. 

I was going to have my taxes done.

I was going to take some things to the consignment shop.

I was going to have lunch with so-and-so...

I was going to blog every other day.

I was going to pick a crafty project and finish it.

Obviously, you know where this is going.

"Was going to" being the operative phrase and all, you might have guessed that none of these things are the things that actually got crossed off my list.

I did get to cross a few things off (yay), but I let these slide through the cracks and am now feeling an enormous sense of guilt. 

I know, I know...a quick peek at my own blog archives might remind me not to beat myself up for these things yet undone. But who am I kidding? My inner-self critic is whacking at me like a blindfolded three-year old up to bat at the pinata. 

I wanted my February To-Dos to become Ta-Das.

I wanted so much more from this hatefully abbreviated month.

Maybe that's something to remember, though.

Three whole days get chopped from the calendar. 

Three.

That's three whole days that I should give myself grace for, three days that aren't my fault. I didn't waste them. I didn't piddle them away foolishly.

But even if those three days did actually exist and none of the remaining things for February were accomplished, To Dos needn't be sources of self-flaggelation.

Why?

Maybe we should take inspiration from that famously frustrating mascot of February and make like the groundhog. And yes, I'm very well aware that Groundhog Day officially came and went a long time ago; but hear me out: It seems highly doubtful that he allows the pressures of the calendar to dictate his To Do list. Rather, I imagine he crawls up to the entrance of his hole every year and thinks, "If it happens, it happens." 

No pressure, no expectation. And no sense of guilt if it doesn't "happen."

It just is what it is––no more, no less.

So the month ends in mere days, and my list is still full of To Dos that most likely will not become To Dones.

If it happens, it happens. 

I don't have to let those undone things overshadow everything else.

Here's Your Sign?

Much to my dismay and in spite of all my best intentions, I realized this morning that I've let far too long a time slip through my fingers without penning my latest post. Somehow, the week flew by with nary a moment to allocate to you, my o-so-loyal readers (all one of you <insert smiley-face emoticon here>). 

In the midst of my self-flagellation over my neglect, I further realized that there might be some people out there still holding their breath, wondering what might have happened after my post referencing the very serious thought I was giving to the possibility that I would take the leap and try to catch my "One That Got Away." 

Let it out and breathe. 

After more thought and some very convincing encouragement from a friend of mine, I decided to be proactive. I picked up the phone and called him at work. Success! Contact was made! And he sounded happy to hear from me!

Breathe.

After a few moments of banal and friendly conversation regarding his upcoming move, I suggested that we grab lunch or coffee when he had a free minute. Yes, yes––we should. When he had a free space in his schedule. 

Weeks later, with a smattering of innocuous text messages exchanged, no free space seems to have opened. Coffee is still un-drunk, lunch has yet to be chewed. And so I sent another text. This one a little more weighty, asking if he wanted me to leave him alone and abandon the idea of "catching up." I ended the text stating that I didn't want to be "That Girl." And the text screen remains blank, void of a reply.

Is that lack of a response, in the end, a response? Do I let The One That Got Away maintain his getaway?

At this point, I'm trying to remember that there are signs; and we're supposed to read them. I'm trying to remember that things happen for a reason. If it's supposed to happen one day, it will. But for now, the screen is silent. 

It's his turn now.   

Dreams of Gold

When I was little, I used to watch the Olympics with great anticipation. 
Not every event, of course.
No, for me the Olympics was about two things: gymnastics and figure skating.
You could keep everything else, as far as I was concerned.
Those two events held a special place in my child-sized heart, keeping me glued to the television whenever I was near one that was broadcasting them.
No matter that we didn't own a television in my house that had access to anything other than the VCR. We had no cable and therefore, no reception for anything other than snow. And not placid white snow. I'm talking the kind of snow that used to happen when the world of technology was confined to analog TV, a frustrating site accompanied by an explosion of sound that is nearly impossible to describe, other than...explosive. Like a rocket taking off. A strange sort of white noise, I suppose.
Still, somehow, someway, I nurtured an obsession for figure skating and gymnastics through those occasions when I was able to view the Games at a friend's house.
I would watch as triple axes and sow-cows were executed with ease and grace, holding my breath until blade met ice in perfect delivery.
I would marvel at the speed and agility of the girls who tumbled and flipped and bounced through the air as they completed routines that had taken them years to perfect. 
I wanted to be them, to do what they did, the way that they did it. 
I wanted their poise and their strength.
To me, it was utterly inspiring.
And so I dreamed I was a gymnast as I cartwheeled in my backyard or balanced myself on two-by-fours stacked together along the flower beds. My imagination turned the smooth concrete floor of my garage into my personal rink, and I became a queen of the ice as I smoothy swiftly skated circles on my roller-skates, loudly blaring Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.
I dared to dream, in the way that only a child can.
I miss that dreamer sometimes.
Where did she go, and what made her leave?
Was it the natural progression of time and the realization that dreams don't always work out?
Was it that I grew up and abandoned dreams like those, replacing them with dreams that seemed more attainable?
Where do the dreamers we once were go? 
What are we so afraid of?
As the Olympics play out, take inspiration from them. Let them remind you that you were created by a dreamer––and that you were made to dream.
Dream big. 
Go for the gold.

Bowled Over?

The game day came and went, in my little bubble at least, without fanfare. My remote didn't stray to the lower regions of the channel register to take a peek at the score or the half-time festivities. I don't know what commercials caught the most attention or caused the most ruckus. 

The morning after, the only reason I know about the score and the continental divide that separated the winning and the losing is because it's been all the buzz on the morning radio talk; and you can't go in a store or cafe without someone making mention of it.

Call me un-American, I just can't get into it. Still, I know there are plenty of people who are. I know plenty of people work their entire weekend game-plan around the game...and to each his own. I don't really understand their fascination any more than they understand my fascination with watching people open baskets of strange ingredients and competing to make something not only edible, but inspiring––all in the hopes of making some money.

That's the point––everyone has different interests and passions. Everyone has different dreams and goals. All of these people who keep us, the viewers, entertained and glued to our television sets and mobile devices for the latest episodes and play-by-plays started off with a dream, a vision, a goal. They were inspired by the people they watched. Think about the ripple effect of that. 

It's amazing, really, how much the words and actions of someone can change the future, simply by changing one life. It's awesome and scary all at the same time, if you ask me. Sometimes it happens without our awareness, as we quietly go about our own lives, thinking no one is watching or that no one really cares. But people see. People hear. They learn to dream and hope––or they learn to give up.

I don't know about you, but I want to be someone who inspires. Someone who shows others that, scary as it might sometimes seem, dreams are worth chasing. That they deserve to live their passions and light the world on fire with their talent. I want to score the goal and do the stupid end-zone dance...
I want to go to Disney World.