Still.

STILL hem-hawing, still wondering What To Do. It’s been a theme of the past several years, ever since I realized I was jobless once the kids had almost graduated from our homeschool.

I’m a writer, in my head, and in what I think I am. But I’m a “writer who doesn’t write,” or, doesn’t publish. I do fill journals.

But I don’t want to be like that. I am thankful – so grateful – to the ones who wrote and published before me. I read their words, and I’m so glad they didn’t leave their words in journals where, likely, after the writer was dead, only one family member would read the words.

I want to write.
I want to roam around slowly, observing the Earth.
I want to have deep conversations with other thinkers.
I want to read snippets of this book, then that one, and probably not finish most, but learn much along the way.
I want to indulge my curiosity and learn about whatever I’m interested in at the moment.
I want to observe, I say again, slowly – to listen to the birds, look closely at the flowers, notice where the moss grows, and where the poplar puts its branches.
I want to create things, as I fancy.

Is this too indulgent? Are we to be “self-disciplined,” “working by the clock,” “dying to self?” Or is it just fine to walk to the beat of my own drum? I wish the world had more folks that lived as I wish to live. Wouldn’t it be lovely, all of us roaming around slowly, chatting deeply, creating with our hands, letting the children run free, and leaving the animals wild? We’d leave part of the lawn unmowed for a roaming and resting place for the dear wild things, and besides, we want to know what comes ’round when we let things grow. We’ll then ooo and ahhh over the blooms that surprise us, and the little bees, wasps, and hummingbirds they attract. Others may call them “weeds,” but we’ll just call them lovely. We’ll wave others to come see, too, us all gathering around to observe the eggs we found, or the snake coiled, or the strange Dear God, what is that thing!

If we all lived like that, dinner would be ‘late,’ they’d say. But, is it? Must we eat at 5:30 pm, just as it’s the Golden Hour outdoors and we ought not to miss it?

If we lived like that, we’ll be poor, they’ll tell us. Ah, but what is poverty? Is it a lack of things, or is it a lack of peace? I’d rather the former and keep the peace. Can we not trade among ourselves? Your eggs for my snap beans and my first attempt at soapmaking for the wildflower seeds you pulled off the brown former bloom in the meadow.

I want to live in a world where we barter and trade, invite and exchange, laugh and play. And why can’t we?