Heather Houdini

     A few days ago, my little sister had a friend over to the house. After they listened to Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers for a good hour (because that's what 6th grade girls do), they wandered into the attic to search for treasure. What they found was a large, snap-plastic box filled with my awkward years. The box was stuffed with rabbit figurines and a black top hat and magic rings and a handkerchief that changes colors and dice and cards and a fake rat. Those were the magic years. 

     They played with all of my old gadgets for hours. I showed them how to unlink the silver rings and how to make the handkerchief disappear. Most of the tricks I forgot how to do, though. When the big moment came, my slightly-rusty slight of hand would produce soured faces and, "Duh, Heather. We aren't stupid." instead of "Oohs" and "Aaahs." I found myself getting defensive and reminding them that I packed up that box a long time ago, and that I used to fool people all the time.

     I vividly remember the 5th grade. I was convinced that I was going to be the next David Copperfield or Harry Houdini or whatever that other guy's name is. I made signs, advertising my magical abilities and how much I would charge for special appearances. But I never did persuade my mom to let me hang them up on Food Town's bulletin board. I made contracts, and kept them in a folder, just in case I got a call from a customer. I was going to perform at birthday parties and be famous and sign a lot of autographs. I'd probably be on TV, too. I was created to be a magician.

      Looking back, it makes me realize two things. First, I was a really big nerd. And second, I knew how to hold on to dreams.

     These days, I don't dream about being a world-famous magician. Instead, I think about being a writer. About traveling. About working as a missionary. About learning another language. About getting published. 

     Sometimes I doubt myself, though. I fear that my ability isn't great enough. I fear that my drive isn't strong enough. I fear that no one will ever want to read 200 or more pages of my thoughts. But fear is normal, I think. Whenever I have been fearful of something, it's because it's important to me. Job interviews, relationship talks, first dates, final portfolios. 

     So, maybe I should keep dreaming big and not shy away from this writing thing, not shy away from the discipline that stretches me and makes me feel alive and makes creative juices swirl around in my head. Maybe I wasn't created to be Heather Houdini after all. (Thank goodness!) Maybe I was made to write. Maybe that is a dream worth holding on to.