I think thirty, for me, is the year to finish things; a year of completion. It’s the year of learning to wrap up loose ends and move on. It’s a year to leave behind the old and start fresh.
I think previously I would have started NaNoWriMo and then forgotten about it midway. This year I fought through writer’s block, carpel tunnel-like pain, and my own self doubts to reach 50,000 words in 30 days. I’m very proud of accomplishing what I set out to do, for the record.
Now, I’m working on finishing a crocheting project that I’ve had sitting around for the past three years. The end is in sight and I hope to have it done by Christmas. I’ve worked on it in bits and pieces, but eventually get bored and set it aside again. Now, I’ve decided that it’s time to finish it.
“The time for setting aside goals and dreams and projects is over,” I proclaim with great confidence and a regal air. Yeah, OK, that’s yet to be seen. But I do feel a new determination to accomplish some goals that I’ve set myself and it’s not a feeling I ever remember having in the past. Have I finally figured out what I want to do with my life?
Time will tell. I fear by just the writing of this post that I will douse the fire that is smoldering inside. I fear that writing this disperses its heat and makes it less powerful. Time will tell.
Thirty is my year to dream and make goals and finish projects. Thirty.
Could I really be thirty already? It boggles my mind.
