I read about John Muir walking 1,000 miles through the southeast United States. “I should do that,” I think.
I find the website of a quilter who makes a living creating beautiful, simple, classic quilts with hand-dyed fabric. “I could do that,” I think.
I watch friends work outside the home three days a week, stay home the rest of the time, but with big girl jobs, jobs with salaries, jobs that require brainpower, and think “oh, how I wish I had that.”
I’ve been running lately. I’ve been a runner for ten years, but it’s off-and-on, only when necessary, a post of its own.
I consider the life of a middle school math teacher, the beautiful balance of numbers all day, the (to me) extravagant salary, and I can’t wait for that to be an option.
How do you choose just one thing? How does the universe decide who is fortunate enough to have a single, consuming passion in life? How do you devote yourself to just one thing?
I can’t decide. I want it all.
Writing hasn’t been one of those wants lately. It’s spring. Spring fever means a life outside, under the sun, in the rain, walking on sand, running on dirt roads, sprawling on grass. It means grilled vegetables and a hasty pot of beans for dinner. It means that my house in unswept and untidy (oh, wait, that’s all of the time…). It means freckles and dirty fingernails and tulips in the front yard. It means wanting more – more vegetables, more sun, longer walks, more time with friends. It means dreaming of less – a tiny house, a bare-bones closet.
No mention, I know, of a little boy. He is fine. He is lovely. He is napping. I just need a moment to be me.