(Yes, in posting this, I found that I already took inventory once… seven years ago.)
In the post-Christmas mess of my house and my life, I wallow.
For weeks I have celebrated and loved with fervor and now I reflect and I wallow.
I am ever aware of the life that I had, and the life I now have, and how it all compares to the life I didn’t know I would have. And that makes me think about the life I might someday have.
And how, wonder as I might, I cannot know.
I cannot know.
I am ever aware of the me I thought I was and the me I now am and the them I thought all the others were and the them they actually are and the us that can’t even begin to figure any of them… or us…. or me… out.
Which reminds me of a conversation we had over candlelight dinner with my daughters, who are growing up, and my parents (who are also growing). We talked about education; the education my daughters received, the education my husband and I received, and the education my parents received. And once again, I was made aware of how I don’t think I ever truly learned how to compose a sentence.
And yet here I am, writing sentences.
I am ever aware of how much I am unaware of.
And while I wallow here in all of my unknowingness and indecisiveness, life goes on.
The tree comes down, the guests go home, the daughters continue to grow.
And I continue to have no answers for life’s questions.
But I get up each day and I work and I give my heart away and I try. I really try.
And sometimes I even sing.
I thought that I would have more wisdom by now.
I am coming to find that maybe wisdom is not so much knowing the right decisions to make as it is being able to live gracefully with the decisions (and non-decisions) that are made.
Sometimes I get this ache deep down inside of me, when others speak of their childhood home with longing. Sometimes people ask me how I’m doing with this transition (this big move across the country) and I get that same, familiar ache. I don’t have a childhood home to long for because we moved too much when I was a child. I don’t have that same feeling of homesickness that I think others have. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with the ache that I feel for something that doesn’t exist. I love where I am, I love where I came from, and I think I love what’s coming. And yet … and yet. The ache is always there. My husband says we all have it. He says it’s a longing for Eden.
He’s very wise, I think.
The cat can’t decide if it’s safe to walk past the noisy printer in order to lay on the comfortable bed. After much visible thinking about it, he has deemed it unsafe and decides to just plop right where he is, on the hardwood floor.
I can’t decide if it’s safe to let my children grow.
I think I’ll just plop here for awhile.
Fierce Peace 