This Season Is the Workshop

I almost skipped this week's blog. Not because I was too busy. Because I wasn't sure I had anything left to say. Maybe that's what I'm discovering this week: that this season is the workshop.

It's been one of those weeks where I know I'm building something meaningful, but I'm also tired. Excited. Discouraged. Hopeful. Grateful. It's a strange mix of emotions.

Part of me knows I'm moving in the right direction. Or maybe that's not quite right. My heart knows what I'm building. It's my head that occasionally gets in the way. It starts asking all the familiar questions. Are you doing enough? Is this working? Does any of this really matter?

Then I catch myself and smile a little, because my heart has been remarkably steady through all of this. It has known for quite some time where we're headed.

So, here's where I'm at.

I've been thinking a lot about belonging. Not in the big, philosophical sense. In the everyday moments that quietly shape our lives.

• A yoga instructor greeting me by name.

• Walking into a place where someone smiles because I arrived.

• The feeling that my presence matters, even if only for a brief moment.
  

Maybe that's why so many of us loved Cheers. It wasn't really about a neighborhood bar. It was about walking into a room where people were genuinely glad to see you.

I've realized lately that belonging isn't something we outgrow. We keep looking for it throughout our lives in our families, our friendships, our neighborhoods, and yes, even at work.

The past several months have stretched me in ways I didn't expect. I've stepped into new rooms, new responsibilities, and new conversations. Some have been energizing. Others have been surprisingly lonely.

I'm learning that growth often creates space before it creates community.

I've also been thinking about writing.

Last week I finished the manuscript for Cycling Shorts and sent it to my editor. Somewhere along the way, it became something different than I first imagined. It isn't simply a collection of stories about bicycles. It's a collection of stories about paying attention.

And as I clicked "send," another thought quietly appeared. I think I already know what the next book will be. Not because I've outlined it. Because I'm living it.  For a while now I've been jotting down little notes to myself. Stories about leaders I've worked with over the years. The ones who inspired me. The ones who unknowingly taught me what I never wanted to become. The conversations I still remember. The silences I still remember. Not to settle old scores. More like love letters to leaders. Letters that begin with, “Here's what I wish you knew.”

Writer as Recluse

The funny thing about writing is that it's easy to imagine it happens in solitude. Picture a writer in pajamas, tucked away in a quiet corner of the house, filling page after page. There are certainly days like that.

But the stories don't come from sitting at the keyboard. They come from living. From interacting with people. From paying attention. From feeling connected. From feeling disconnected. From longing. From laughing. From crying. From trying again.

If I wasn't experiencing life — connecting, conversing, observing, wondering — I don't think I'd have much of a body of work. I'd have pages, perhaps. But not stories.

Months ago, I told someone I respected that I saw myself beyond the role I currently hold. She smiled and agreed. I've thought about that conversation a lot this week. Not because I'm in a hurry to leave where I am, but because it reminds me that this season isn't the destination. This season is the workshop.

It's where the stories are being gathered.  It's where the curriculum is being written.

So if this week's blog feels less like a lesson and more like a journal entry, that's because it is.

This is simply where I'm at.

Tomorrow morning the sun will rise again. I'll pour my coffee, step out onto the porch, and keep paying attention.

Because I've come to believe that writing doesn't come from having all the answers. It comes from living the questions long enough that, one day, they become stories worth sharing.

Maybe that's what this season is after all.

Not the destination.

The workshop.