Blaming Nobody But Yourself


Here’s a confession for you: I’ve fallen out of love with blogging. (Perhaps I should have saved that for the priest instead of the congregation.)

Not writing but blogging.

And it’s not you, it’s entirely me.

You see, when I go through hard times, I pull away from people and run as far as I can. From family, from friends, from y’all. And the irony in that is too obvious to miss. Because that’s when I need the hugs, the affirmation, the late night talks over the sound and smell of brewing coffee.

I’m not living in Paris or London, but much like George Orwell, I feel down and out.

But feelings can get you into trouble. They’re the ones that tell me it’s okay to lose my temper and it’s okay to envy the girl moving to Africa. And they’re the ones that have been telling me it’s okay to mope.


So here’s how I’ve filled my days in the name of avoidance:

I’ve applied to jobs across the country.

I’ve dressed up in my business casual best and sat in front of a panel of potential employers.

I’ve driven thousands and thousands of miles, alternating U2, Needtobreathe, Tom Petty, Mumford and Sons, Bob and Jakob Dylan, and Lucinda Williams.

I’ve popped corn kernels and watched British movies.

I’ve browned crepes over a hot stove for my mama.

I’ve danced my way through downtown Nashville’s best bars.

I’ve sat up till the early morning hours sharing secrets with friends over bowls of ice-cream with whipped cream.

I’ve broken up dark soil with new roots and watered green plants.

I’ve taken pictures.

I’ve sat beneath Virgo, Leo, and Draco in dewy grass.

I’ve mix avocados with garlic and tomatoes and cilantro and jalapeno.

I’ve sipped dark wine on the patio with my mommom.

I’ve picked snapdragons and peonies and rhododendrons, and I’ve put some in my hair.

I’ve shaken hands with Donald Miller while trying to hide my girlish crush.

I’ve tried on heels that have put me at 6’4.

I’ve danced front row with Rinehart brothers onstage.

I’ve picked strawberries with my baby sister.

I’ve struggled through 10 mile runs.

I’ve eaten cherries until my fingers were stained dark with juice.

I’ve read and read and read and read. And I’m still reading.


But I haven’t really written.

And it shows – just ask those closest to me.

Because if you’re not doing what you’ve been created to do, you’re miserable.

And I’m sick of being miserable.


What have you been created to do? Are you doing it?