Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting to be born. Floating in an amniotic dream, I’m healthy and happy and yet, I want to arrive! As time ushers me from phase to phase of my life—childhood, teenager, adult, wife (twice), motherhood (twice), middle-aged student—I find my womanly maturity needs ever-increasing creative expression.
There are days I feel as though I’m spinning, incubating, reaching for beauty that exists all around me. I see it so clearly!  I feel it within me! The golden light of an aspen tree, the simplicity of wind swept grass, the soft gray-glow morning brings before the sun rises in blushing immodesty… all invite my soul to create.
And yet.
I can’t stop spinning—which is the way for me to go? Photography? Writing? Something else? Can I learn to paint, crochet, be a woodworker?
I haven’t stopped incubating—the breakout moment eludes me. My work gets gentle approval, a kind word here and an encouraging push there, but the labor continues without a crowning moment. How long can I go before my creativity is pronounced talentless and stillborn?
I keep reaching, reaching, reaching, and yet—what I want, who I am, is just. That. Much. Further. Away. I can almost touch my creative goals, but not quite. What am I doing wrong? More importantly, what am I doing right but fail to acknowledge and build upon?  If I don’t trust my inner voice crying out, “Keep going!†who am I listening too?
And why?
    Why are those voices quiet when I need encouragement, and loud when the words include doubt? My time will come. I know it. Mom put off her travel plans until “someday.â€Â She died before someday came. My dad said “one day†his ship would come in and he would live a bigger life. He died, still waiting for the ship, one day recently. I miss them both and choose to learn the lesson they offered.
My time?
 Is now.
You are so correct! Life is too short to be anything but happy … “now” … some days we just need a little more direction then others 🙂
xoxo
Leah
I don’t know if Mom ever did this to you, Leah, but when I was having a blue-day she’d ask, “Why the long face?” I’d hurrump and try to ignore her so I could enjoy my funk. She would NOT leave me alone. Before long she’d be making faces, acting like her chin was drooping, and so on. I always caved and started laughing. Do I remember why I was sad? No. Do I remember those moments with Mom and the laughter? Yes.
When I feel lost these days I remember her silliness and get back to my smile.