I was 48, nearing 49, when I realized that if I was ever going to accomplish my big dream I had better get started. For years I had wanted to write a book, but I never had enough time. Between work, motherhood and keeping house I had plenty of excuses. As I stared at 50, I realized that I would soon be staring at 51, then 52, and the years would pass with me no closer to my goal.

I finally decided to give myself permission: permission to take a sabbatical from the nursing home and the retirement home where I serve as a chaplain. Permission to let go of a steady paycheck. Permission to honor my goals and make my goals known to others. Permission to give myself time.

I finally decided to give myself permission…

Easier said than done! It took me a year to fully get there. For every two days that I gave myself permission, there were three to four days in which I withdrew the permission I had granted myself. I drove my husband crazy, not to mention myself.

Fear took over. What if I take off this time and I don’t succeed? What if I don’t write a book? What if I CAN’T write a book? What if, after I’m gone for a year, the powers that be decide to do away with my job?

I had other fears too. I was worried that the elders I worked with would be angry with me or think I was deserting them. I worried that they would not understand that this was something I had to do — that if I didn’t, my very soul was at stake.

I ended my weekly study session by saying, “I have one more thing to say before we finish.”

I clearly remember the day last fall when I announced my sabbatical to a group of elders at work. I ended my weekly study session by saying, “I have one more thing to say before we finish.” Then I choked up. My tears found their way into my throat, and I couldn’t speak. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Give me a minute.” Through tear-filled eyes, I noticed the worry in their faces that God forbid something was wrong with me, as in really wrong, so I managed to add, “There’s no need to worry; I’m fine.”

As I pulled myself together the thought struck me: Had I really given myself permission? I thought I had, but as I stood there in tears I wasn’t so sure. “All is well,” I said. “I just want to tell you that I will be taking a sabbatical for a year. I want to write a book, and I need time to work on it. I won’t be leaving right away. I’ll be here through December. I’ll be on sabbatical for 2012, and I’ll be back in January 2013.”

I looked out at the group. A slender woman in her ’80s, a sculptor with whom I had many conversations about the need to create that lies deep within each of us, raised her right hand high in the air as if she were a cheerleader cheering on her team.

She wasn’t alone. Others came up to me, wished me well, hugged me, kissed me, and said they would miss me. When the room emptied my sculptor friend reappeared. “You know our pact. You said you would write, and I said I would get back to my work. Now that you’re writing, I have to get back to my sculpting.”

Their belief in me enabled me to believe in myself. They are wise elders.

Over the next few weeks many of the elders offered me their blessings either in person or in writing. They told me they believed in me. They encouraged me. They supported my decision.

These elders blessed me with the permission to take leave of them for a year, and their permission enabled me to give myself the final permission I needed to follow through with my goal. Their belief in me enabled me to believe in myself. They are wise elders.

As I write this I’m nearing the end of my year’s sabbatical. I did write the book and am now re-writing and editing. I will eventually work to find a publisher. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to returning to my elders, to telling them that they were right, that I did what I set out to do, that I’m glad that I did, and that, through their belief in me, they helped make my goal possible. I also look forward to telling my elders that they were the ones who helped me to understand that my fear was unfounded, that the permission I sought from them already existed, and that it was permission from myself that I needed.

I wonder how many of us are stuck in this spot, longing to move forward yet unable to give ourselves the green light. Maybe it’s time to give ourselves permission.