“How did I get from there, to here?”
This is something I’ve been uttering under my breath a lot more lately. Every time I step on crumbs or fold another shirt, or wipe the seat; again, I mumble, is this truly what I signed up for? I imagined a very different life for myself as a young girl. I wanted to sing, do art, live in a big city, be a professional something. I pictured living a romantic, exciting life.
The reality is that I’m a single mom to four intelligent independent thinkers who challenge me at every turn. They never let me settle into a complacent cozy nook. There’s always a new path that we need to slowly pick our way through. And this is the every day.
Sitting in a space of feeling sorry for myself, the whole thing can overwhelm me and disengage any daydreaming, making me feel melancholy for the olden days, where reading and trips to the washroom were uninterrupted. Where projects got started and finished, where passion for pottery or sewing or writing or anything other than chores and appointments and breaking up disagreements took precedence.
Then walking around the house I find scraps of paper with words scribbled across or little sketches while dancing is happening to music being loudly played and songs are being sung with sweet voices and stacks of books are on every surface. My perspective shifts and I am able to step outside of the haze I’m walking in and I can see something happening around me.
These tasks—these days that seem to drift into one another with all of the busy running and distractions—are filled with projects and creativity and the essence of a truly ‘romantic’ life. It’s happening all around me, it’s in every corner of the house, and I am the curator guiding my children into their daydreams.
So I guess, it doesn’t matter how I got from there to here, after all. It’s all coming full circle, and with a little bit of breath, my turn will come again, and really, why am I not just joining them?