Last January, right here, I said I would read one hundred books.
(Not to mention that every minute of every hour of every day since I was seventeen I have said that I will write one).
I told myself I’d be fluent in Spanish by now, that I would know how to sew my own clothes and knit and bake a cake and swim.
I tell myself I will drink more water and eat more kale and volunteer and learn one new thing every day every day.
That I won’t worry so much or care how I look.
That I will sleep less; do more; play piano.
I don’t know what happens….
Me, I guess.
Imagine my surprise when I said that I was going to walk from the southern tip of India one thousand miles north… and I did.
This is me. The day I did something I said I was going to do.
Thank you so much to everyone who cheered me along and followed the journey on loafe – it really did mean so much. In fact, I think saying it out loud and to so many people was part of the reason I got up and walked on those days I didn’t want to.
It’s not about self-promotion or even being held accountable so much as reifying the claims we make. When our wishes are only whispers in our heart it’s so easy to ignore the niggling voice that says: “You’re not doing it. You’re not doing the things you said you’d do. This is your one chance at life and you’re wasting it.”
This year I am going to write a book.
You may never see it of course; publishing is another story. But I am going to write like I walked. One step at a time through the pain and heat, awaiting that sweet breeze and sunset that makes it so leap-in-the-air worthwhile.