Manufactured worlds and eighties blueprints

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The house is so deliciously quiet.  This may be my new normal.  Going to bed at 8 and getting up at 5.  My thoughts are racing and I don’t want one stir of a mouse to interrupt.  I know this now.  Complete silence with no chance of interruption is a pre-requisite to my happiness.  It’s a condition.  I get so angry now, when I’m interrupted.  But, I am my biggest interrupter.  Interrupting myself with preoccupations.  With my obsession to unravel the paradoxes of life.  It comes to me this morning, that we all build these manufactured worlds that are a result of our desire for comfort, but when we outgrow the world and no longer feel at ease under certain circumstances, we fail to keep building.  We stomach the wall-paper, roll our eyes at the brass and bite our tongues every morning across the flooring.  I can think of only one interruption I would invite right now.  The sad thing is, interruptions can also be an indulgence that keep us from focusing on the prize just behind the decoy.  Our interruptions inspire yet our dreams run the risk of expiring while interrupted.  This is one of the oxymorons that puzzles me.  But these worlds I’ve built for myself, that box me into a bedtime, breakfast, lunch and dinner – happy hour.  These worlds really get too small to contain my creativity, my desire to live and fully be alive.  It’s o.k. that I dare you to interrupt me today yet dare you to love me the next.

It’s like, we need this shelter, the roof over our heads, the so-called stability that these worlds over-promise—but there’s a whole other world out there beckoning us to visit.  And sadly, we’ve unsubscribed to the idea that perhaps there’s a natural habitat somewhere right in the middle of exactly where we want to be right NOW.  We spend all this time building the blueprint for our future and by the time we start to build, our inner world spills coffee on the blueprint and we’re forced to consider that this may be a sign our plan is light-years behind our soul.

I can’t live in the zone at my 8-5 job because living in the zone is unpredictable and being unpredictable is irresponsible and being irresponsible doesn’t pay the bills.  I’m fully aware of how a conversation is supposed to unfold professionally and I’m sick of it.  It isn’t me.  This world I’ve constructed, the good girl I’ve become, the responsible mother I aspire to be, it’s all feeling very eighties.  Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t believe in bulldozing old homes and blazing the forest.  But can’t I at least be a part of a world that doesn’t expect me to sit behind a computer for 8 hours a day to get paid for what I could accomplish in 2 hours if I was true to my calling?  I’m not blaming the house, I’m blaming myself for not moving on…for not moving up from my under-sized hermit crab shell.

And yet I don’t blame myself at all, because this is a part of life.  It’s a Goldilocks adventure and what was “just right” at one time in our lives, may find us uncomfortably tossing and turning now.  As I write this, I hear you puritans, with all due respect, mocking me.  My angst in search for a new habitat that fits, isn’t a result of poor choices.  It’s a result of choices—of a life that I chose and of a life that chose me.  Just because I complain about my children doesn’t mean I want to return them.  But we do know that some situations to which we subscribe in life have a more lenient return policy.

It’s basically the structure that I detest, but the straight jacket that keeps me from gnawing off my arm.  I grew up in church and you just don’t raise your hand to ask a question.  You just don’t.  And so it is with life.  You sit hoping and praying that your child talking in their sleep will not wake up yet, so that you can finish your thought, the thought that may or may not matter, in a home that you may or may not have outgrown.

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