I’m becoming resigned to the fact that there simply isn’t enough time to do everything that I want to do. That I will die without having a gorgeous garden. That I will never learn to sew. That my photos will remain in disorganized boxes and never see the light of a beautifully produced scrap book.
We all have choices, yes? Choices of how we spend our time. Choices of how many books we read, how many television shows we watch. How many snacks we eat.
I choose to spend my time writing.
The problem with writing, of course, at least for someone like me who is a stay-at-home mom, is that I can do it always, or I can do it never. I can spend any spare moment at the computer on any given day…or I can find no time, ever, to write. In other words, without a set time and place to write…it becomes both impossible and perpetual. I can never do it – yet I am always doing it.
Everything else – the garden, the sewing, the organization – falls to the wayside.
Does that mean my life is not balanced?
So what am I going to do about it?
Become a Renasaissance Woman? Learn to garden, sew, cut and paste and, while I’m at it, polish my long-rusted piano-playing skills?
No. Not likely. Because it all comes down to where my heart is. Yes, I’d like to have lovely scrapbooks, filled with ticket stubs, photographs, and zig-zag-edged polka dotted papers. But I don’t want it enough to actually do it.
Or, looked at another way, I want to write more than I want to garden.
Everything else just has to be set aside.
Let it go.
That’s the mantra of my life right now.
Just let it go.
Let go the need to be right.
Let go the sense of inadequacy.
Let go the pressure to be the person other people think I should be.
Besides, turns out they all think I’m eccentric anyway. Why not just embrace that?
I’m willing to embrace the writer-image.
At least to a degree.
Just don’t expect me to start smoking and wearing berets.
I’m all over the scarves.