I wanted to crash into July like a tidal wave, keyboard blazing and goals falling like dominos. Instead, I’ve done laundry and made dinner, closed my rings but missed my step goal, read too late and played too many games of solitaire. I don’t know why I can’t manage to piece together all of the pieces of my life into a puzzle that makes sense. Instead, it’s like the one on my dining room table: worked on in spurts and interfered with by a curious cat.
I’m not giving up, of course, because giving up on life is ridiculous when you’re not even fifty. I just sometimes wish I had a crystal ball to show me some options, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, the kind I used to read with my fingers firmly trapped between pages when I wasn’t exactly sure which adventure seemed like the right one. At this point in my life, the choices seem smaller, but bigger, all at the same time. I want so badly for the puzzle pieces to make sense, not just for my own life but for the lives of our kids, even though their lives are filled with their own potential adventures, not mine.
This in-between-ness isn’t for the faint of heart, which my friends with older teens already told me. But my in-between-ness is weighing on my heart right now, too. I want to write, but I’m scared to write, not because of the writing but of what comes after the writing. The promoting and wondering and wishing I would have made different choices along this twisty way of mine.
July hasn’t been a tidal wave, but I’m still going to do my best to ride it out to a better place than it began.
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