The above was taken at Padang Padang beach, when I had nothing to do but drink coconuts in the sunshine. #goodtimes #blessed
I promise this isn’t just a post where I bang on about how I’m really supposed to be in Bali…
Remember last year when I sent hate mail to 2015? Pfffttt. What the heck did December 2015 Em know about a rough year? I’m pretty sure that right now, the collective blogging community of THE WHOLE WIDE ENTIRE WORLD is banging out a passionate piece about how much this whole year sucked with a side of disaster.
And while pretty much everyone can tell you a story of woe from the year that shall henceforth remain nameless, mine isn’t quite so dramatic. It’s just a story of meh. That’s right. 2016 is the Year That Em Was Blah.
Truthfully, I’ve found it hard to be focused and clear headed and passionate about…well, pretty much anything really. I generally have had no idea where I’m going or chasing most of the time. Even now, trying to bash out this post, it’s taking all of my available brain space to stay focused and actually put words on the paper (ugh, can someone invent the eloquent version of typing already? ‘Type words in the CMS’ just doesn’t have the same ring, y’know?) – and if I’m being really painfully honest, I’ve been distracted by so many ridiculous mundane things already. (But hey, you guys – you should SEE the brand spanking new desktop picture I have…)
I’ve tried a couple of times to find the Desire Fire, but I get the distinct impression that I’m hashtag Doing It Wrong. (Morale of the story incase you’re busy and important and don’t have time to stick around for the whole story (but you should, we have scones and tea): You don’t find the passion, the passion finds you.)
Like my headstrong pooch pulling on his lead when we’re out for our evening walk (BTW, anytime you wanna quit that bad habit would be super a-ok with me, Diesel-Dawg), I’m forcing my life into the direction that I think it should be. Trying to make all the round pegs of my personality fit into the square holes of where I think I should be.
It’s incredibly frustrating. Remember just four short years ago? (Searches through her brain, finds only hazy, tequila fuelled memories and some inappropriate outfits.).
I. Knew. My. Purpose.
I was inspired. Creating. Taking images with every spare second of my time, writing oh so many words – heck, I was even idealistic enough to believe I could write a novel. (A Special Message From Four Years Later Em: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Remember how long it took to finish the first chapter??) I was even thinking of quitting the 9-5, going out on my own, laptop and camera in hand, to conquer the world.
I didn’t. For many reasons, but mostly, because a great opportunity fell into my lap and it felt right and off I went, not really questioning the why or WHAT IF THIS ISN’T RIGHT – or even asking if this is how ‘The Official Life of Em’ is supposed to look. I jumped on my (imaginary, but very relevant for the purposes of this story) surfboard and rode the wave. Right on, sister.
Cut forward to 2016? Things are hard. I’m restless. Refer to my earlier statement of not being focused or inspired or creative. (Go on. Scroll back. I’ll wait right here for you.)
The difference between then and now? I’m forcing things. Going after what I think I should want, rather than just letting the pieces fall together. I’m pulling on the lead, and life is gently yanking me back on the path I’m supposed to be on, and instead of obediently following and being rewarded with a treat – I’m keeping my eyes on what’s distracting me across the road, getting more and more frustrated that I can’t just run across and get it. (Yes, I just walked my dog, and no, I’m not planning on giving up the dog analogies anytime soon. I mean, they work and WHO DOESN’T LIKE DOGS AMIRIGHT?)
I didn’t pick up a camera because I thought I should be a photographer. I just bought one because I wanted to take better pics and before I knew what was happening, I was shooting weddings. (For anyone thinking of becoming a photographer, please note, this is an incredibly abridged version of my journey from novice to pro, and I completely skipped over the part where I was a music photographer and routinely crushed/covered in the beer of head-banging patrons every Saturday night #goodtimes #allmygearsmellsofbooze)
I didn’t start writing because I wanted to be a writer. I just needed a creative outlet for all the words that bash around in my head every day. There’s a freaking lot of them. And then people asked me to write words for them, and I did – still not quite believing that my particular brand of sarcasm and babble could actually be considered ‘entertaining’. (If you’ve made it to here, well done. I’d have lost interest/thought I was drunk-blogging three paragraphs ago)
I may not be good at many things, but recognising when it’s time to change is one of them. (Ok, that’s a complete lie. This ‘recognition’ has come from many coffee dates with my nearest and dearest and a couple of Buzzfeed quizzes…)
As a Type A personality (read: control freak) and a firm believer of writing my own destiny (but not my own novel, because hard), it’s a bit scary to just give up the reins to my own life over to the Gods of Fate. Well, sort of. I’m definitely not planning to be a super zen passive passenger, or go all Eat-Pray-Love on y’all. I’m just going to follow the path of the things I enjoy doing, stop trying to force the things that I think I should enjoy doing and trust that I’ll land exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And if that just happens to be a sunny beach in Bali, I won’t complain.
(Immediately looks up flights online)