Faith

I'm one of those people whose mother did not teach me to cook. I learned to make oatmeal for forty one summer when I washed dishes in a nursing home. My father-in-law taught me how to fry eggs when I was dating his son. The rest came out of being able to read cookbooks as a young bride.

There is a knack for excelling at some things, but getting the job done often only requires being able to follow directions. I can usually do that.

I may have to put that piece of furniture together twice, but if I follow the directions and I persevere the job gets done. Much of life is perseverance and patience.

Other things must be learned more slowly, by trial and error, or imitating someone who already knows what they are doing. I am good at imitating people too. Again, stick with it and that imitation becomes a skill that I can pull off at some acceptable degree. Playing the piano is like that for me.

The things that frighten me are the things I do by the seat of my pants, those skills that seem to be here inside of me, but which I don't have any real idea how I tap into. I suspect they are like everything else I do, but I am just not aware of how it works. There is something scary about not having a formula for reproducing something with a degree of continuity. It's kind of like making whipped cream. Done right it is a delight. Done wrong it is like lumpy butter.

Writing is my whipped cream. Done right, meaning the people who read it like it, it can be really good. Done wrong, meaning people don't like it, it is ego shattering. I don't write anything and hold it up to the world unless I believe it is okay, but I never know until after the fact. I've learned, of course, that if there is a large enough reader base, someone is bound to like anything, but there is no security in that.

I find it odd, but interesting, (and terrifying,) that the things I do best are a mystery to me.