Monday, May 26, 2014
This past week, past few months really, I've been complaining about the space I inhabit in my life. There are so many things that I need or want that I almost feel like a kid and not an adult. I took stock on all of the things, mostly materialistic, that I needed in order to feel like my life was on the right track. Some of the things on the list were: winter boots, sheets that not only match but fit the bed, a comforter that fits the bed, curtains, new clothes, a full time job that will lead to a career, a pair of high heels and a dental appointment.
Tonight, when I got home from work and started folding the mismatched/hand-me-down laundry, I had a realization. This is the life I imagined when I was younger. As a kid I thought mismatched, wonky towels and sheets meant that you lived an interesting life. It meant that you had been places, that you collected memories and not "things." I believed that in order to live the life of a writer, things would be messy from time to time, both financially and emotionally. Old sheets and a previously owned couch just meant you had a creative life that didn't always allow you to have new and shiny objects. As an adult, I lost sight of this perspective.
I am still trying to find the balance and beauty between worn out towels and a rich creative life. Every day I experience contradictory emotions that are both uplifting and confusing. I haven't figured anything out yet, and from what I can tell, that's ok.