Ever

As summer comes to a close, my hands are starting to ache. I am fiddling with them constantly. I feel like I need to make things every hour, every moment. I'm itching to accomplish important projects in these next few weeks, because I know if I don't, they won't be done by the end of the year.

I made a box with my father the other weekend. It's in my bedroom now, beautiful and stained with a Danish oil. I got so excited about it that I became slightly disoriented. That happens to me often. My fickle little heart will desert my former ambitions quicker than I can blink, suddenly I've found a new lover. He's better too, with more hope and a bigger part of my dream. And he makes so much sense. In the wake of the euphoria from a finished project, he makes so much sense.
I won't lie. Boxes have lived in my heart for quite some time now. And they do make sense. They are something I want to do.
My excitement peaked over the course two days.
But then I was still.
I sat on our back deck and wrapped herbs around wire letters for my little niece, Claire. They'll hang over her dresser. As I thought through everything, I came to the conclusion that I need to finish what I've already started. Yes, I have other beautiful dreams. And yes, sometimes they come to a forefront in my mind and I want them more. But yes, this one will always live in my heart.
Help people, I whispered to myself as I snipped the ends off of some spearmint and they fell into my lap. You can have other dreams, I told myself. I assured myself. But you always need to be helping people. 

This is a post to tell you that over the weekend I was going to quit school, live at home forever, and make boxes with my father to fill with good things and then sell to good people. Because it made perfect sense.
But it's also maybe just a little bit selfish.

I think I'm nervous. I keep changing my mind about everything, but not really. I feel like I'm getting married, and I'm standing in a room with a white dress on and fastening the clasp to my necklace and my hair is slightly falling out and all of the sudden, I don't want to do it anymore. Except there's no white dress and absolutely no groom and I'm not getting married. It's just that there is a stack of boxes in my room, and I'm leaving in two weeks.
Part of me is really afraid that I won't get to do everything that I ever want to.
Two years is a long time.

I don't know why I keep telling myself that I never have time during the school year. I took twenty-two credits last quarter, and I was sitting in my bedroom reading Emily Dickinson every morning and painting every night. I fluster myself. And it's because I want to be perfect. I want to be the best. I want finish strong.
But I need to want other things more.
I am learning to unmoor myself from the safety of the beast of perfection, and to just let go. To be better. To do better. And not necessarily have it say that on a piece of paper. I should be able to gauge my own progress. I should be able to measure my own happiness. It shouldn't come with a letter grade.

I once wrote in my journal,

I just want to make things, and get enough sleep.

And so, I am convinced that that is what my life will be like for the next two years. I get to make it what it will be. I need to remember that. I am going to go help people. I am going to go better myself so I can help people even more. And I am also going to make boxes.
I already decided, this can work.
I can be everyone I want to be.
I can do everything that I ever want to.

Now, I am going to spend the rest of my morning slowly. I am going to read Amos, drink tea, and finish the words to my little book I've been working on. It's got me thinking, do we really need to know everyone's wishes? Because part of me just wants to leave that out. Part of me wants no peak in this story, no crest of a wave to have crash down on him. Part of me just wants him to wish, and you to never know. You to just follow his adventure.
We'll see.