It’s going to be tough to claim victory in this one.
I’m days behind, trying in vain to catch up for the A to Z challenge. I wanted to write about vulnerability today, harkening back to some meditation fog observation I’d made about stepping in from the vestibule of life and really opening yourself up.
Me preaching the virtues of vulnerability would be like me spelling out the benefits of Valerian Root for menopausal symptoms.
I haven’t ventured out of the vortex of my comfort zone like that in ages. I’d be a villain to write that post. I wrote about valentine’s day once, the day after valentine’s day. This wasn’t long after Madison decided not to play for the Converse College Valkyries.
It’s not like I have a vendetta against writing about topics outside my comfort zone.
I’m prime for a vicissitude in my life, something that will change my vintage thinking into something bold, Viking bold. I made the great decision (or mistake?) of asking my Facebook community to suggest V words I could use, and of course, two chose vagina.
How about hoops?
To distract myself from that, I thought of sports, of course.
Virginia won the national championship in basketball. Cool story. But then, I noticed the next word on the list, vulva. I know what a vulva is, but do I want to write about it on this blog? As I walked to my car to go to work, past Volvos and Buicks, I laughed a little.
I’d even assured my Facebook friends I could fit volleyball and vulva into the same post!
That would take a valiant effort. What value would it have? You can skirt around the blogosphere, picking off the easy targets like a velociraptor after eggs and rodents, but what have you accomplished? What does that say of your writing virtues?
Ironic, that the thought of it all made me feel vulnerable after all.
I walked into the office in a violet polo shirt and corduroys and hoped I had the spirit to deliver such a post with vehemence. I’m a writer! Challenges such as this shouldn’t vex me. And yet, I walked through the valley of death, unable to reach a verdict with myself.
Before my face turned a shade of vermillion over the very thought, I remembered …
I am a writer!
I can do this. A voice came to me, of me and yet not of me, no unlike a ventriloquist held the reigns and controlled the words. I couldn’t get to the laptop quick enough, feeling dizzy by the thought of it, as if I’d had some sort of vestibular episode.
The restrictions that held me back ripped away like Velcro.
The vacancy that filled my writer’s brain filled with healthy thoughts. It’s as if I’d skipped my vaccinations and could arrive awoke where my fingers met the keyboard. At last, I had a vision. At last, I could make good on the vows to deliver in this space.
It’s not vanity. I’m confident in my writing, but I don’t eat enough vegetables. I still wear Star Wars Vans and I go after my kids’ uneaten pizza crust like a vulture. But like a plain vase that sets off a room’s decor, sometimes my writing just fits.
Whether you’re in Silicon Valley, Villa Heights or upper Vermont, you can associate with this feeling, I’m confident.
Sometimes the words are subtle as they arise; others, like a volcano. It can surface as subtle as Pluto or brilliant as Venus. Either way, it’s a valuable lesson. Rather than play a victim of circumstance here, I’ve decided to own it. In a very virtuous way.
This proves you can accomplish the impossible without resorting to violence. You need not become a vigilante. I managed without much foresight, or copious caffeine, or even a Facebook friend named Violeta, but also backed by a Veronica and a Vanessa.
Which kind of makes me feel … vainglorious.
A to Z Challenge: