looking through me

Sometimes.

Ninety percent of the time I start writing with the word sometimes.

Sometimes I think . . .
Sometimes I wonder . . .
Sometimes . . .

Even as I type it I’m trying to edit it out, but if I don’t start with sometimes, I might not start at all. Because starting is hard. In writing. And in life.

Signing up for the class. Asking for help. Getting out of bed. Making the phone call. Breaking a habit. Making a habit.

Hard, hard, hard. The first step is a doozy.

The first word is no different. So I put on my floaties and wade into the water with the safety of sometimes.

Because rituals help. We need to tap the bat on our cleats before we go up to bat. We need to twirl our pen or rub our necklace. We need to put on the left sock before the right sock or take off our glasses before brushing our teeth. No? Just me?

I need the security of rhythms. I need to find the steady beat and fall in step with it. I need muscle memory to take over because my mind is filled with what ifs. What if I don’t have any words left? What if I can’t finish what I start? What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not perfect? What if I’m not perfect?

Sometimes is how I propel myself from stationary to starting. Sometimes is how I hush the fears and brave the waters.

And once I’m in? I wonder why I was so scared in the first place . . . sometimes.