Old as Moses
I have felt this pressure all my life (whenever anyone says "all my life" it is always hyperbole) to do something important or that felt right, to me, at least - that fit with my soul, that would just click. I've been indecisive about what I wanted to be when I grew up since 8th stinking grade. Psychologist? Writer? Teacher? Physical therapist? Interior designer? Pastry chef? Mad scientist?
And here I am still mulling it over and it's annoying the crap out of me, because I'm finally doing what I ALWAYS knew I wanted to do: be a mom. Yep, since my diaper days, dragging around baby dolls, that one thing I've known and I've waited good and long for it and now it's here.
But I feel as if the moment is ruined by this lingering obsession - what am I going to do for a career, to make money, to make something of myself, to make a tiny impression in the world, to leave a dent with my name on it - and it annoys me.
Why can't I just drop it - the pursuit of self-importance, the pursuit of meaningful work? I mean I'm getting to be as old as Moses (my birthday is right around the bend, so I'm allowed to say this). I'm probably not going to do anything worthy of fireworks or statues or Time magazine covers if I haven't started it by now, right? (Although late bloomers have been known to surprise us all.)
And yet this itch is still digging at me in my rare off hours - why am I not being more productive? Why am I not coming up with some off the hook entrepreneurial idea? Why am I not building a blog with thousands of followers so I can get a really cool book deal (tee hee)? Oh yeah, and WHY am I not getting my novel published? (And WHY am I using CAPS so often now?) And why am I not writing another novel?
But you know, it just ain't where I am right now. I don't have space to be MISS PRODUCTIVE. And I so want to just let it go.
Speaking of novels, one afternoon I was laying in bed with Will snuggled up next to me napping and I was looking up at my bookshelf full of writing books - books I haven't touched in a year. I was thinking about my book. The one I wrote and rewrote and rewrote. The one I've been scared to reread, scared it wouldn't seem good anymore. I was laying there thinking about that book and it occurred to me that I still believe in it, that book. I still think it could be a good book. I just have to figure out how to talk about it, as a concept, how to market it, and how to find an agent for it. That feels like no small task. And it's not one I'm up to right now.
I still get embarassed when someone asks me about my book - what it's about. I still don't want to explain. "Ummm... It's a time travel romance?" I still believe in it - I just have to get crisp on what it's about and stop being so shy telling people about it. But when will I get there? I guess when I'm good and ready. And right now, my baby is the one who comes first.
And right now I want to master the art of being HERE, right NOW. Because if I am old as Moses, shouldn't I be getting wiser too?