Moving Peaces

I want to write out the things that are happening. What’s moving in our lives and what I am learning. To be honest, the last post has been a bit of my anthem lately. Consider it an attempt to throw my fists in the air to let everyone know I’m prepared to fight for my dreams and ambitions. But lately, it’s been hard to not be swallowed up by a desk job that leaves me feeling less creative and less interesting than I’d like to be. I find myself searching for someone else’s words and creativity to capture the strange empty tensions that bubble up inside of me.

So, let’s just say maybe I don’t know what I am doing with my life. Sometimes I feel as though I am wandering around aimlessly but in a part of town I’d rather not see. Is it the worst? No. But do I want to be stuck moseying around here all day? Not so much. Then I ask myself, how do I keep ending up here? Why can’t I get to where I am supposedly going? Or at least in a place I feel led to be?

Not only do I feel sometimes that I have some skills and ideas that are completely overlooked, but also—I have potential that I don’t know how to tap. How do astronauts get good at flying to the moon without their maiden voyage?

I have a good life with a wonderful husband and a happy home. That part is awesome. What I can’t seem to figure out is how my skills/strengths can be applied in a career path that doesn’t run me over or pull the rug out from under me. All I can do is keep trying. But when all the trying doesn’t seem to do anything, it starts to creep into my life with my husband and friends and happy home. This just cannot be.

We are all people. People who have lives outside of our day jobs and interests that go beyond data entry. Why is it that when you are a kid the common question is “What do you like to do?” but later in life that changes to “What do you do?”

As kids we could be soccer players or artists or rock stars. Sure, we spent eight hours of our day in school but no one considered that to be our primary focus. If all we did was school, we were probably pretty boring little dudes. Why has that stopped? Why does a job have to feel like your primary purpose and lot in life? Shouldn’t our lives be made for something more?

I want to dream and create and live my life. So don’t put me in a box that only goes as far as my job title. Because I am a writer. A reader. A creative thinker. A traveler and explorer. Don’t shove those attributes under the rug. Because if those fade, a part of me does, too. And then you’re stuck with a pretty boring little lady.

Yes, I’ve said it before and you can hardly deny it—I write. I won’t claim whether or not it’s good. I’ve certainly read books and blogs with far superior writing than my own. I just can’t help it though, when I learn and think and grow, it pours out of me. It’s been a continual hobby and passion. It’s what allows me to think through thoughts even further and then later reflect on where I’ve been.

So now the question is, how can that be used? What might I be called to use this hobby and skill for? Because rooted down in me, I know this cannot only be for my own good. There’s got to be something more. Until I know what that is, I’ll just keep writing. That way I’m ready for whatever is in store.

Whether we like it or not, what we wear says something. Maybe it’s “I’m comfortable wearing pajama pants outside my home,” or maybe, “I am quite sophisticated and can afford to be.” Working on a college campus, I see all sorts of statements. Sometimes I want my outfit to say the same thing theirs does.

Usually I want to say something along the lines of, “I’ve lived. I have interesting stories and care about learning new cultures. I have a sense of style that blends an eclectic set of clothes into one cohesive outfit. Because I’m cool like that and can handle it. These clothes didn’t all come straight from Target, but an amazing list of thrift stores that somehow all manage to carry my size and look like they have just the right amount of character. I have had adventures and therefore, some good stories to tell. I’ve lived.”

Whether that’s all true or not, that’s the direction I aim for when I try to let my clothes tell the story for me. But then it occurred to me—if I focus so much on what my attire portrays, what part of my life is lacking? If I let my clothes do all of the talking, what’s left to say? I want people to know that I’ve lived? Well how about I live that life as opposed to constantly searching for an item of clothing, household decoration, piece of jewelry or instagram evidence that says so. I want to live my life. Not pretend to.

I’m not sure when you get to start calling yourself a grown-up. Is it after you hit a certain age or buy your first car? When you pay taxes or eat vegetables all on your own? What is it that classifies you as such?

The hubby and I were writing a song together recently about someone stuck in the Badlands and it made me stop to consider. The intensity and beauty and death in that land is unmistakeable. The summer before 5th grade, my family took a road trip through South Dakota and that trip has had a lasting impacts on me for whatever reason. The desolate wasteland, the beauty of the rock formations and massive bison roaming a land where battles were fought and forgotten lives lay buried.

Maybe being a grown-up means you realize when you are in the Badlands. When you survey the land and find it dead, with little prospects for growth. You look left and right only to find you’ve brought others with you to a dark and desolate place. You can’t continue on pretending you are surrounded by life and lush vegetation. You have a thirst for truth and seek it. When you say, there’s more to life than this waste and ruin I’ve grown accustomed to, and will do whatever it takes to flee from it. Even if it means asking for help and admitting failure.

That, to me, is a grown-up.