Thinking.

It’s because it’s Monday, this being full of ideas. There’s something about the beginning of the week, the open slate, the vast realm of possibility, the return to routine that gets my brain thinking.

Planning.

I love the feeling of expectation on Mondays- the whirl of thoughts, the scrambled ideaphoria, the anticipation of a goal.

Usually the goals are slightly ridiculous, often unrealized, but quite exhilarating, nonetheless. The thing is? This one is recurring, and I keep working toward it in my head, writing it in my brain, editing thoughts, remembering moments, devising chapters- without creating action to fulfill it. It has been said that people who write down their goals are 80% more likely to achieve them.

Is that true?

I don’t know. But there seems to be some validity to that point.

There are times that I hesitate to state a dream, for fear of not achieving it, and then for fear of being disappointed in myself. And, honestly, I’m afraid of disappointing others even more. Thus begins a banal course of unrealized goals, unrequited dreams, and ultimately, frustration.

So I’m going to open the email, and find that one entry. The place it began, the jotting down of notes, the daily happenings that I would email to myself, fearful of even putting it in a Word document. As if saving it to a real file would be the catalyst for action. Sometimes it was late at night, after a full and tiring day, that the letters would fly to the page. And I’d read them later and not understand much of what was typed in my tired state. It’s time to look it all up again, and begin to find coherent words. Maybe Paul and my parents will be the only ones to ever see it. That’s okay. I don’t want accolades; but just want to finish it and know that I didn’t leave it on the shelf. It isn’t because I have anything unique or special to offer; it’s all been written before. I just don’t want to forget, or look back on my life when I’m 80 years old and wish I had.

So, with some trepidation, I’m stating the goal, knowing that my family, at least, will understand this ridiculous sense of dreaming, and forgive me for it.

It’s really not a big deal in the scheme of things, this goal. I want to write down the experiences from my first year of nursing school- get it all down- the trepidation, the fear, the pain and challenges. The tearful phone calls to my Dad and Mom on my way home from clinical, the difficult experiences that had me crying at night to Paul. The anxiety over trying to juggle the needs of family with the busy schedule of studying. The worry over being a good mother while going to school and clinical. The resulting smiles from something challenging that was accomplished. The surprises of learning about our staggering health care system. The emotional growth and stretching experiences. The patients that come into your life for a few days, these people whom you care for at some of the lowest points of their lives, in their most vulnerable state, their most private and fearful moments. People who you can’t imagine forgetting, and about whom you wonder- where and how they are now. It was a year that was full of wonderful and horrifying moments. It’s nothing new, or earth-shattering, and certainly would not appeal to a wide audience. For that matter, it may never be shown to anyone.

I just don’t want to forget.

I’ll write what I know.

I’ll write to remember.

~

Do you have any little or big dreams you’re putting off?

~

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?”

-Mary Oliver

(from her poem ‘The Summer Day’)