Content with what I have

Excitement comes in waves. One minute it's all up the hill, another - boring. One day everything goes towards something new and big, another - nothing is happening. One week things grow and blossom, another - it seems like life is being sucked out of me and nothing will ever be the same. On the upside, it's easy being happy. On the down - I start clamoring for the high, I have withdrawal symptoms, I am going mad looking for new, for better, for something all the way out there, and I toss aside the mundane - or so it seems. Because it is not. It is what I have, and I don't know yet how to cherish it. I seem to be on the path to chase a dream, but never really look under my feet to appreciate the scenery. And it's beautiful, in all little ways - grass blades, dusty shoes, forgotten promises, quick hugs, simple things. How do I make myself stop and notice?

I only last so long. I used to have an anchor, I used to never even think about it beyond what everybody else does. People walk around knowing their place - their family, their love, their beliefs. So did I, before it all stopped existing and became one gigantic question mark. Now I gain some understanding little by little, I hope it will stick. But it doesn't. It still is as fleeting as rain drops - one minute they're there, another they're dry and gone. I want to cry some more, but my eyes are dry. I look and seek the perfect connection, but I dismiss the connections I have. I try to grab the passing bird, and I spill the cup of tea that was all along in my hands. I ruin the dress I'm in and I tear it shreds, trying to pass through the blackberry shrubs - because there was something there, something I saw, something magical - a rabbit? I don't know why, but I am enamored by the idea of beginnings and am bored when things are settled. Yet I seek them to be settled when they are beginning - a paradox? I try and try and pile up my plate so high that I can't swallow. I get exhausted and hope for relief, for the quiet time, yet when it is quiet, I get restless again, I've got to make it all exciting and new again. It has lost its spark and the new shiny packaging. Haven't I had enough toddler time? Is this some mid-30's crisis that tests my own patience with myself?

I wish I knew. I only know to stop and listen, to breathe, to be happy with what I have. To appreciate it. To be in the now. I stopped being in the past, big victory. Now I've fallen into a new trap - constantly chasing the future. I can barely sit still, I've got to look into the next hour, into the next week, next year. What if this will happen, what if that will pan out, how would it make me feel, how will it change my life? And on and on it goes. Exhausting. If you put me into a clear box and let me go, I will bounce around it like a rubber ball - never stopping, always in movement, a perpetual excitement bunny. Wonder what will happen if you open the lid? Yeah, me too. I guess you will never see me, unless I happen to drop down on you because I need someone to bounce off of. Which brings me to the next question - is this a phase, or is this the new me, or is this what? How about settling, how about just pausing for a second? I tried today. I gazed out the window for about 20 minutes, that's as long as I lasted. Meditation? Sure thing. Got to make myself do it. Being ok with doing chores while alone on my own in my house? Has yet to happen. Isn't this what I was dreaming of? Writing my book, in the quiet. Where did that go? How did my restlessness originate, where?

I make myself sit still and I hold my tea. I look inside the cup and I see my face. I smile, and it smiles back. I'm not alone, I'm here and now. And I'm my own perfect company, and the tea will warm me if I'm cold, and the garden will make me grow fond of every moment - the slow movements of the leaves, the soft scatter of the rain. The fear will be gone. I see the bird, and I don't want to chase it anymore. It pecks at the wood, and I watch. The bird has no worries, and mine are gone too. And so we sit into the night.

Photo by Shandi-lee Cox.