Hi Darling Ones,
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about the smallness of my life. For someone so large, my life is very small. I don’t do a lot, which gives me a lot of time to think, one of my favorite pastimes.
My routines are well worn. My days have a sameness that alternately annoy me and comfort me depending on my mood. Is this something that happens as we age? Is this contentment? Is this stasis? Is this something I should be ashamed of? Proud of?
I feel as though maybe all my grand adventures are behind me.
The jury is out on whether or not this is a giant bummer. Do I still want to have grand adventures? I don’t even know. They’re exhausting. Fun, but exhausting. I much rather have grand discussions or grand debates. Those still exhilarate and thrill me.
A lot of this contemplation has been brought on by having a few quiet days in a row. This is the calm before the storm. Sister #2 & Ben arrive on Sunday and Sister #4 will be here Wednesday. My life will be very loud and raucous until they leave on Friday.
Mostly I worry that contentment is the enemy of creativity. If I’m content with my small life of books and homemade food and music will I eventually lose the urge to write? Can contentment even be a continuous state? Is it like happiness where you need its absence to recognize when you have it?
That’s what’s been on my mind so far this week. What is on yours?