I’m reading Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art. Well, that’s just one book in my endless stack, but it brings me back to one question: What am I afraid of? Oh, lots of excuses crowd in and overwhelm me.

When it comes to creating, I am my own worst enemy. I can practice piano and improve, or wallow in dissatisfaction at the sound of my own playing and steer clear of the piano for weeks. As much as I hate to admit it, I went through several months of this toward the end of last year. Playing piano began to depress me and so I’d avoid it. Another major area of struggle is writing. I can work on writing poetry, songs, essays, and blog posts or I can convince myself I’m not gifted to write and who would want to read or listen to my words anyway. I worry my written voice or style is boring and that the topics I’m interested in will interest no one else. That I’m unable to produce anything worthwhile. That, basically, I’m a failure as a person.

This is probably the foundational fear: that I have nothing of worth to offer anyone. Then the downward spiral is complete and I’m caught in my own trap of negativity, procrastination and fear. So who wins? No one, unless you believe “the devil made me do it”. I stop creating and releasing and I wither inside. My usefulness as a person diminishes, both in my own estimation and, in practicality, toward the world in general.

Of course I know my way out of this is to just do it. Practice, write, share. Over and over. Have the worst piano practice sessions ever, but keep practicing. Write garbage for days, but don’t quit. And release some of the imperfect into the world, because it’s part of the imperfect me. The more I do it, the more motivated I am to continue, to progress, to be a creator living with, yet uncontrolled by, fear.

I’d love to hear what both scares and motivates you!

I can’t remember the year Advent came to the threshold of our Christmas and stayed as part of the annual tradition in our house. The children were small and I searched for expressions to make the season more than merely the wait for Santa and the unwrapping of tangible wishes on that one magical morning. They were too young to look for anything else, and their childish hearts held plenty of delight and wonder at it all.

But I needed intention and thoughtfulness to help my scattered, tired soul focus on what this was that we celebrated.In the middle of the mess of homeschooling, holiday baking, the church play, and the never-ending list of gifts to make, buy and give I thirsted for a moment to be still and listen, to wonder, to follow the story and mull over the message.

My kids liked the candles we lit each night and the cookies they ate while I read. They sang the carols and took their own turns reading as the years went by. The wreaths changed, the books changed, but we gathered for a few minutes during the dark evenings to put the pause on our busyness and immerse ourselves in mystery.

This year we are in transition, a metamorphosis, and it seems an upside down sort of world. Yesterday my daughter said, “I think Christmas will make things right.”

“It will,” I agreed.

We don’t have to pretend to be full of joy this Advent. We don’t have to fake frivolity. We only have to bring ourselves, in all our brokenness and busyness, with our questions, doubts and fears, into the mystery and quietness of a love we cannot comprehend and will never earn. It is given to us. Advent is waiting.