I wonder, at times, where I am heading. I wonder what plans are in store for me. I wonder how long all this goes on for. I wonder if I am making huge mistakes. I wonder how to make more changes. I wonder how to let go of the fears. I wonder if I will ever love again, or be loved. I wonder what I will be doing in a month's time. Where I will be in a year. I wonder if I am good enough. I wonder about my children. I wonder about my talents, and I wonder why I can't surrender and trust more.
Am I who I am supposed to be? Have I failed there? Am I missing something? Will I ever get the bathroom done? I wonder "why?" I wonder "how?" I wonder "if?" And then I get sick of all the questions and wondering and I go out. Delving into the mind is not for the fainthearted. I am fainthearted. And I am not all that inclined to delve anyway. Doing is easier. But sometimes the "doing" is just running to escape from the "just being".
I keep thinking back to the question someone asked my daughter once, which led to her moving to NZ...."If your life was a blank canvas, what would you paint?" What would I paint? Maybe that question is better asked of a young person. Mine comes with bits attached. Like children. I can't paint a future for them, though. Just for me. A collage, perhaps? Layers?
If my life was a blank canvas, what would I paint? Splashes of colour. Mountains and forests. Water. Quiet in the mountains, and people down below. Time alone and time with people. Young people. Old people. People. Children. Creativity. Words spoken. Music. Books. Arms enfolding my world. Whose arms? How do you paint love? How do you paint serenity? How do you paint grace? How do you paint peace? How do you paint laughter?
I am not looking for affirmation here. I am just wondering. My mind is gliding from one question to another, without pausing to search for answers. I am not sad or depressed or panic stricken. I am just letting myself breathe and be a little. And that is good.
If I were to paint my picture, it would be of a little house in the forest on an Alp, I think, with a fire burning, the kettle on, and people popping in to visit, children playing outside, and beautiful things being made. Music drifting from the open windows, and a tower of books next to the pile of quilts on a huge sofa. Flowers growing outside the door, and light pouring in everywhere. There would also be a shadowy person who would be there to hold me while I slept. Rested. And there you have it. I am alone. Sometimes that matters.
Sometimes the responsibility is overwhelming. Sometimes the strength is just not there. Sometimes the weariness is bone deep. Sometimes the colour is missing. Sometimes the need just to be held is beyond words. Sometimes the wonderful friends and family are just not enough. Sometimes that still small voice says... just rest a little while, and when I do, sometimes the tears fall.
Sometimes that is good. Because sometimes I need to be reminded that it is ok to feel.