A couple of weeks ago I emerged from my office and told my husband how happy writing makes me.  His response: “Then you should do it more often.”  Yes, yes I should.  I’ve already determined it’s a form of therapy in my post entitled Psychology 101, have purposed I would eliminate excuses, talked of simplifying, prioritizing and the list goes on.  When I spoke of Dreams Deferred in another post, one of the passions I was referring to was my writing—specifically, the story I’ve been carrying around in my heart for as long as I can remember.

Unfortunately, other “stuff” just keeps getting in the way.  For example, my family is getting ready to close escrow on one home in less than three weeks while preparing another as a rental property; our soon-to-be-empty-nest still contains one chick who desires to fly the coop but isn’t quite mature enough (financially, anyway) to spread her wings; my internship is coming to an end next week with only minimal job prospects on the horizon and I’m still working part-time to contribute to the family coffer.  And then, of course, there’s the everyday living that takes place in the midst of all the craziness.  This is where I struggle—finding a way to balance what needs to get done while at the same time knowing some things must wait. 

But how, then, do I maintain a semblance of sanity and find happiness in the process?  That’s the easy part.  I still write … letters to an out-of-state friend, emails to my long distance daddy, my weekly ramblings and rhetoric, a few hundred words here and there which may, someday, end up finding their way into my story, the next issue of InWithSkin or during my ideal job awaiting me just around the corner.  I have to believe that when I finally realize my dreams it will have been worth the wait, knowing everything leading up to that point prepared me well. 

Or, who knows, maybe I’ll just trade it all in for life as a beach bum—the sand a natural exfoliator, the waves my own personal white noise, the crystalline skies the backdrop for my muse and the seashells a reminder that it is possible to store memories in a jar—salty fish scent and all. ~ cs