Keeping it Simple

My daughter is in the hammock, shrieking. Shrieking for fun, shrieking she is alive, shrieking she wants to swwwiiiiiinnnnng, mama! My husband is wrenching a water spigot into place, the pipe snaking away from him in a trench that we have become accustomed to stepping over, dirt falling into our shoes from the piled up mounds traversing our yard. I am filling buckets of water from our 2500-gallon water tank to quench the thirst of the corn, the beans, the squash in the chicken coop yard. We are laughing, our two-year-old is shrieking, vegetables are growing in the garden, the sun is filling the chlorophyll in the leaves of the trees with promises.

My 18-year-old self is clicking her tongue against her teeth, rolling her eyes as she smokes her clove cigarette and scribbles angry poetry into a collaged journal. She doesn’t know who this middle aged woman with deep laugh lines from years in the sun is to her. She doesn’t know how this mama can get satisfaction from being just a mama, a gardener, a wife. She is disappointed to see that no books have been published, no acting projects executed, no awards won. The middle aged woman looks over at the young one and sighs. She has regrets, doubts, longings that the young one can’t see, but she is also the most content she has ever been in her life. She hasn’t given up on the pursuit of art, it is simply at a slower, softer pace. She doesn’t derive every happiness from a child or husband but is grateful that these beings bring her many moments of joy throughout the days and recognizes, in her relative maturity, that when they piss her off it is often pointing to an unresolved anger within herself. Something to examine, something to learn from; a place to soften.

When the 18-year-old starts whispering into my ear that this life is not enough, that there is something more out there for me, I listen gently and nod my head. 

Sometimes I wonder if she is right. 

If this life is settling. 

If I've lost my passion. 

If I'll ever BE SOMEBODY.

I still dream of publishing, acting, traveling. I wake up early and sit down to my computer and write. I wonder if auditioning for local productions will be feasible in coming years. I book tickets to go to Alaska, Oregon, California to travel with my daughter, introduce her to ferries and camping in tents and the frenetic energy of airports; people going somewhere, doing things. 

Instead of the grandiose visions I had of myself at eighteen, I recognize that this simpler life suits me: in this moment I don’t need to be famous, I don’t need awards, I don't need to travel constantly. Life is simple, stable, and beautiful. I wake to a chorus of birds outside my window and nuzzle up to my daughter going to sleep. I write when I can, sipping coffee and savoring a sleeping household. For now, this is enough. It may change, no doubt it will, but I am drinking in this ‘for now,' this quiet contentedness, as long as possible.