While I composed the letter to myself, my middle ached and I became weepy. When ever did I even ask this question for myself? My six decades had been about what others wanted.
Writing long and hard about what hurt gave me clarity: I pursued the new job as an interventionist, planned a trip to France, spent more time with my grown daughters, tried again to date available men, and bought a convertible. I shifted my erroneous question, “What do I have to look forward to?” over to the heart search, “What do I really want?”
Driving to work one morning I also realized that I had viewed my foreshortened future through a distorted lens. I was striving for what I could accomplish that would be worthy to make up for the many shortcomings of my life. When I looked at my thoughts, I had to ask, “Who’s keeping score?”
Now, again, I feel that settling of the brain, and the mind weariness of the end of a school term. I’ve been placed as an interventionist again. I’m grounded from travel to finish a major electrical/insulation project on my bungalow. Tonight I just helped my daughter buy a low-miles Camry so she has wheels that work.
The purple sands at Pffiefer. Those strands that show in the ebbing tide. Those thoughts I think in between the humdrum and the full tilt teaching schedule…always feeling the pull of creative impulse, but no set discipline. Wanting to write but lacking purpose. The inevitable creative turnover that happens in my teaching life; wanting to capture the best and reinvent myself for next season.
What do I want? I want my family and friends to know I love them. I want my colleagues to respect me. I want to make new friends. I want a loving relationship with a man who is over his childhood issues. I want to finish my bungalow so it is comfy especially when my mom wants to live here. I want to know when I can afford to retire. I want to go back to France. I want to take risks…and follow my intuition.