It’s just love, really, at the bottom of the pile of all this, the striving and the overwhelm and the frantic tries to do it all. Just love for my family and friends and for this life and for sweet people all over the world–and especially the ones who haven’t yet been loved enough to be sweet back. I was wired to love and I was wired to write, and so it feels something like breathing to use my words to love this world and give them only a me-sized piece of hope.
I want to do it all–all the letters and the photo-snatched memories and the beautiful things that go into books and onto pages and get etched across lives to grow them deeper, fuller, richer. I want to do it all, and I don’t want anyone to tell me it’s okay if I can’t because it isn’t okay. I’m not okay if I can’t.
Call it a dream, or a goal, or just something deep inside this crazy almost-old woman whose children are nearly all grown up, whose husband stands strong nearby holding her hand but daring her with twinkling eyes to soar. If this is my dream, please don’t pinch me. Tell me I can do it.
I have to believe I can, because to believe anything less leaves me not quite all here, not quite whole.
Sometimes in the chaos of do-it-all-now I instinctively slow, close my eyes, breathe deeply, inhale my surroundings, and remind myself to be grateful–truly grateful–for the here and now, for what I am doing already.
I never realized how driven I am.
But what if it’s true that it’s just love driving me, pushing me forward, propelling me toward the dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember? What then?
How does one fly through a cloud thick with all the details of a purpose?