Wearing her pink and green pajama pants and an overcoat, she scuffs through the kitchen into the garage. Kicks off her fuzzy slippers and pushes her feet into dirty garden shoes; balancing one foot at a time while holding her camera inside a plastic grocery bag.
“What are you doing,” her husband asks while stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth.
“I’m going outside to get a picture of something,” she tells him.
He’s used to this, the way she takes random photos at odd times. But today, Saturday morning stillness sinks to the bone like a leaky faucet dripping through a grey cloud canopy, tricking our internal family clock. The rise and fall of each youthful chest keeps rhythm to the chorus of lazy rain drops outside.
An hour ago, she stared out her writing window sipping tea, asking God questions. Watching red breasted finches hold onto the feeder swinging like a merry go round holding small children. Mesmerized by the way raindrops chandelier on the ends of branches, lighting up what’s living poking through winter’s decay beneath.
At her back, a stack of note cards, pens and book tents cover her writing desk. She longs to capture rain dangling on trees in the South like Christmas lights glowing in summer. Instead, she stands in the confines of the door frame or sits behind sealed glass. The same way she wants to write a book, by admiring the words of others.
Is she good enough? The question haunts her when she looks at the cursor flashing like a tired Aunty leaning on the kitchen counter, arms crossed in the wait.
She admits thinking about a dream and idealizing it is actually more fun than living it. That waiting for the right time, for the rain to clear, is like telling God when she’s ready to give birth. Is there ever a perfect time?
A chill bites the back of her neck as she clods across the soggy yard in front of the neighbors. She stands under a halo of bare branches catching cold spit wads on the crown of her uncombed head. And as she frames a magnified shot, she hears the answer to her question.
“Yes, you are enough. Because I am enough.”
Her son sits at the counter scooping cereal into his mouth bleary-eyed, watching her push the towel around the camera lens absorbing the specks of water. “Can you pour me some orange juice Mom,” he asks politely.
“In a minute,” she says, “I have to go write something down first.”
Sometimes you have to take the first uncomfortable step outside of resistance to realize your dreams. That first step, its the hardest one to take.
How do you overcome resistance? What does resistance look like in your life?
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