a fail is sometimes a good thing.

Today I’m entering into the last week of my twenties.  I thought about this week a lot last year, as I got ready to turn 29, half way through my self imposed 2-year challenge of ticking off 30 experiences before I have to admit that I am in fact a fully-fledged grown up.  But I’ve not so much as given a second thought to my much deliberated Challenge-30 bucket list recently; if it was an actual list, on an actual piece of paper it would likely have been scrunched up and thrown in the bin.  For a long time it just wasn’t important to me.

But these last couple of days, the achiever in me has looked at the list and shaken her head in disgrace.  I have not managed to tick everything off.  Tut tut tut.

Then I realised I’d turned my bucket list into something it was never supposed to be.  It had became all about achieving success in the challenge, getting it completed.  I’d missed the whole point of it – because I started this thing with the intention of creating opportunities to embrace experiences I’ve not yet lived, not about ticking off some words on a list.

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It’s not like at thirty I’d suddenly become unable to live out these fun things! Quite the contrary I’m sure – the older I get the more I thrive on trying new things.  Although I’m all for living for today and (trying to) not stress about what tomorrow brings, I’m kinda ok that I’ll enjoy some of the stuff on my list at 30.  Or 31 or 41.  And the list will only get bigger because I’ll find so much more that I want to try out and enjoy.  I still hold that the idea of a bucket list is a good one, because it gets you thinking about what you’d really like to do that you’ve not done before.  A metaphoric kick up the backside to simply live.  It’s made me realise I need to give myself a break sometimes and let the completer-finisher in me a chance to have a nice ol’ nap.

So I failed my Challenge-30 Bucket List.  And for me, right now, I think that’s a good thing.

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Hi, I’m back.

I’ve tried to do this a bunch of times over the last five months.  Jump back into the saddle.  Get writing again.  But that saddle just seemed too high.  Too much.  I’m aware that those readers who joined me along the way have long since given up stopping by my blog.  So I’m more doing this for me.  Because I love to write.  And because if I used a journal or notepad, sooner or later I’d end up losing it along with the thoughts I’m trying to preserve for the future me to look back on.

For more than four years I have put a piece of me into every blog post I write.  My dashboard tells me I did that 320 times.  But it’s not a matter of keeping it going for the sake of what I’ve already written; it’s a matter of preserving space for what I’m yet to write.  Not to be some big shot writer (I’m a realist to a fault) but just because it’s what I love.  It’s what’s good for me.

To say it’s been a hard year feels so understated.  There will be a time, and I feel strongly about this, that will feel right to talk about it.  To be real and raw and honest, to give hope.  But ultimately to give honour and glory to God who is able to do immeasurably more than we could ever ask or imagine.  I used to just believe that, but now I know it to be true, without a flicker of doubt.  Because I’ve seen it and lived it.  And whatever your experience, when you live it you tell it, you can’t not.  But that time isn’t now, not yet.  My now is full of embracing life as it is, scratching my head over tomato plants that don’t grow tomatoes and getting comfy back in this saddle 🙂