I think I’m on the cusp of something happening. I feel it. In my gut.
I went to mass today for the first time in a really long time. I was running a few minutes late and almost chickened out before I got to the door, but a gentleman walked up alongside of me and offered to share his umbrella as we ran to the church together.
I grabbed a seat in the back with the women who tote small children around (they are usually late too – but it tends to be more because of a diaper change or temper-tantrum than a serious mascara crisis or difficult decision like “which Greek yogurt flavor should I eat today.”)
Because I scarfed down a Greek yogurt right before church, I recited all the prayers and responsorials and creeds in my head – I was suddenly paranoid about having bad yogurt breath.
I cried a little when we said the Our Father and no one held hands. In my church back home, everyone held hands at that part. But I regained my composure just in time to offer those around me a sign of peace.
Then, it was communion time. I prayed that God would heal all of the cracks in my heart and that He wouldn’t be mad at me for taking communion even though I hadn’t gone to confession in a few years and had skipped church a lot lately.
I felt better after communion. I decided to start going to church every Sunday again. Something about it makes me feel really really good. Like at peace. That tells me I am doing something right – that I should keep it up.
I don’t know if the cracks in my heart were healed like I asked, but as I am laying in bed tonight, too terrified to sleep because a really dark spider is running back and forth across the ceiling in my room, I feel something different inside of me. It’s an excitement and an anticipation. I feel like I am on the cusp of something really awesome, like falling in love or writing a book or winning the lottery. I feel hopeful. I don’t know why, but I’m expecting to stumble across something big.
And, as cool as it would be for me to stumble across a grand love affair, I secretly hope that my gut instinct relates to my writing.
I met a real live journalist from the WSJ this weekend. We were introduced by a mutual friend and she had read one of my articles. She called me a writer. I just looked at my knees and tried to think of a response. I don’t feel like a writer – at least not a real one. But I want to be a writer. We talked a little about my blog and I told her about my first idea – the social experiment blog I haven’t had the time to develop beyond rough draft phases. She asked me why I was even willing to blog about that and not have a paper pay me to do it. I didn’t have an answer to that question.
Sure, I think it’s a great idea. Why didn’t I consider the possibility that someone might agree with me?
I have this sinking feeling that there are great and wonderful and paralyzingly terrifying successes in store for me…..either that, or I’ve got a stomach bug and will be running to my toilet and puking in the next few minutes. It can be difficult to tell the difference between these kinda gut feelings.