Monday Mimisms ~ It's Half Past Eighty-Five

There's a candle burning on the mantel in the middle of the day. 
I hear nothing but silence. And the click click clicking of my keyboard as words and phrases form in a place I've come to call home. You know it... that place in your head, in your heart, that calls and communicates with the real you? The place where no one red-pens your grammar mistakes, God doesn't question your questioning, and there is no one around to hear your tears or see the spilling of them soft upon your page? That place. This is how I want to live. Everyday.
Unhindered. With long spaces of time in the meadow of my words where there is no one to interrupt and no chores to call me back to the screen door when I'm in the midst of a thought that needs more thinking. No one to keep me from burrowing down that rabbit hole. Oh, 'cause let me tell you, I have some long-neglected rabbit holes that need a good looking into.  That reality is more real to me than any job or chore or a even a career calling. 

 It's not that I don't know what my calling is. It's that I don't have time to pursue it. 


I distinctly remember saying aloud to myself when I was somewhere around the preteen Age of Reasoning, as Biblical scholars would call it, in a wide-eyed conjured up revelation that came out of nowhere and never left me, "My greatest fear is reaching the age of 85, looking back over my life and realizing I have done nothing important in the world." 


And time is ticking towards eighty-five.  For all of us. Thankfully, in a world where today's middle-age is the new youthful place to be, I am firmly planted smack dab in the middle of my prime.  And my prime is screaming at me.  Baby boomers are a generation of clock mystics. We can stretch a dollar and a minute. Hours, days, and years need to mean something. We saw the assassination of John F. Kennedy, slept on the grass at Woodstock, rode the Challenger halfway through the sky and fell into a world of lightning speed technology called the Internet when all the experience we started with involved a typewriter and a record player and a love of Paul and John. A few became pursuers of things. They have more things.  But many through social osmosis of the times became closet humanitarians and pursuers of truth. Part of our psyche is to save the world. 

We should have more of that by this juncture in our lives.  But we don't. Let me just speak for myself.  I don't. At least not enough.
Because I'm torn away to pay the tax collector and the mortgage man. And it takes more and more time away from the pursuit of my true calling to make ends meet. So many of my friends at this age say the same thing. If you didn't marry or inherit money, it's likely you'll be burning the midnight oil at midnight forever...or so it seems.
Unless I leap
Unless I jump
Unless I trust the universe ....
 and conjure up Woodstock

I want to officiate peace globes the way they deserve to be done. I want to work full-time with creative me, at home...where it is quiet and word-worthy...where the candles burn on the mantel and I can hear what needs hearing, not frantic and loud like my everyday workaday world. I want to see the world through the lens of my camera and write what I see. 
Because it's half-past 85 and then some.

Where do you stand with the promises you've made yourself?



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