Expectations are debilitating. Not yours for me, but mine for me, I mean. I know that without a vision people perish, but does that always mean the vision has to be the peoples' own? This is what I am mulling over recently--others' expectations for me and my lack of wherewithal in meeting them.

I have been drinking tea and staring blankly at this computer screen for a half an hour. The reason: debilitating expectations. Without doubt she will ask me in the morning, as she most always does, if I've written. Without doubt, I will almost always say no. No. I haven't written, and here is my excuse: I have no time, I have nothing to say, I don't know how to say it, I don't know where to start.

But the real reason is that expectations threaten me. They make me feel like there is some unseen potential, hidden from only me, visible to everyone but me. I felt that choking sensation the moment I was handed my diploma, frightening responsibility. I felt that suffocation when a friend asked me to share at the recent youth retreat. There is this great weight that accompanies maturity and I never feel ready to accept that coupling.

A verse from Proverbs that is often quoted to me speaks of a man's gift making room for him, and I've written about it before; it always convicts me to be more responsible with the things given to me--to invest in them expecting a ready harvest.

I should know, though, that reaping takes more than a forgotten seed planted sometime in the spring. There's daily tending to be done and my hands have grown soft with fear and timidity.

I need to write again.