Blank Book

when I was in third gradethey gave us blank hardcover booksso we could write on thembut I considered it a prized possessionand didn't want to mess it up with my wordsand so I decided to leave it blank until I thought of something really good to put inside

eight years laterI find myself confused as ever beforewhy hadn't I filled the book in thenlike the other kids?what a thrill it would have beento rediscover my youthful scribblesand witness the excitementin my nine-year-old handwriting that graffiti'd the blank canvas of the page!

instead I'm leftwith an empty piece of my childhoodwaiting to be found.

you can't fill in the gaps when it's too late.

and eight years laterI realize that gracious gift I valuedwas not really a wasteafter all these years.

the unfilled pages are how I've been living my life,forever waiting for something perfectto come alongbefore I can truly live.it is only aftercrossing paths with the bookthat I understand:

you can't worryabout being"good enough"before you do something,anything,

because your life istoo shortandtoo preciousto sitwaitingaround.

I should have filled the pages withpoorly drawn cartoons,bad poetry, andawful storytelling,leaving no spaceb l a n k.

and life should be full ofhumurous mistakes,terrible puns,and wild tales your grandchildren will ask you to tellover and over andbrag to their friends about.

leave no secondof life explored.