I promised something the other day. A promise so promising that the little hairs raised on my arms. It was not without a bit of hesitation- the tug I felt was a nagging reminder of my habit of over commitment. I get so excited about things and ideas that I overcommit myself. I’m invincibly capable and optimistic, I’m also flighty and passionate in spurts. I grant myself naps as easily as committing to 10k runs (note to self, T-7 days til the next one).
I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite restaurant; the place where I go for my birthday, the place I recommend to strangers, the place I take myself on dates. I’m lounging alone, shamelessly slurping truffled tagolini through my teeth, twirling pasta onto my fork with a spoon, savoring sips of Montepulciano between bites.
There is an ebb and flow to restaurant life that engages the best parts of me. I love the hustle and flow of hospitality; the service and care of food and wine, moments punctuated by clinks of glass, sounds of voices filling the space. It’s the rolling of an ocean of little moments of bliss. What an amazing industry this is.
“They treat the grapes like it’s an Amaronè,” Jen’s schooling me as she pours me another glass of wine. “It’s honey and sunshine,” she coos while pouring herself a taste. Jens in work mode, she’s speaking in the dignified respectful tone of voice she reserves for guests. I’m just her friend here in the midst of all this energy, contributing my commentary via written words and appreciation.
I’m writing a bit between courses, pondering the things that make us better. I’ve promised 10 min of writing a day- each day, until the 21st. I am desperate for the nudge I need to write regularly again. Honoring myself is one thing, honoring my friend’s faith and admiration is another. I adore her. I’m better because of her. I’m writing this on my phone in a restaurant at 11:30pm because I respect her- and am hopeful that this; like every other thing we’ve collaborated on is a brilliant success. Legendary tales of epic proportions. Magic between magical people. Also- I respect myself. I want to set goals and not only meet them, but crush them. I want to be a writer, but writers are only writers if they write.
I’ve decided to give myself permission to succeed- taking my wildest dreams and taming those damn stubborn fearful beasts into docile lap kitties. It is possible. I’m wrestling with doubts and fears- nothing more. I’m capable of whatever I want. Overcommitted or not, my playing small does not serve the universe.
I like this. All of it. The challenge, the spontaneity, writing to be better; to honor something bigger. It feels right. It tastes good. One step, one bite, one sip after another.