Sometimes I write on my walls because I can. Sometimes I save up to pay for an experience instead of a new bed set. But as I age as a woman, and move beyond babyhood as a mother, I feel a little ... bored. My life, these days, is not the content of an exciting book you can't put down. I wonder, what kind of writer can I be when I am folding laundry? I should be collecting experiences, meeting people different than myself, breaking out from the homogeny of my social station.
Should I manipulate the story? Inject some drama and excitement for the sake of it? Should I determine my next move, and make it a big one, as a protection against living a bland life? I have a great fear of living a boring life that could be interchangeable with anyone else's. I do not want be on my deathbed wishing I had the courage to have done more, strayed from safety, lived bigger.
So. I am sitting here in a life transition and not sure who makes the first move: Me? The universe? Am I supposed to be waiting for a next big thing at all? Maybe as I become more comfortable in my own skin, amassing life's wisdom from doing and seeing, I am to learn the value of just being. Sitting in the present, where things are slow enough for me to look around and appreciate the small, beautiful things I have missed in the chaos of raising four baby girls through their infancies. It really was quite busy, and at times difficult. Some days it can still overwhelm me.