Random Porch Thoughts

   I'm sitting on my front porch. There's a light breeze and I've just finished a glass of wine. The boys are on their way home and I have just about another hour to myself before mom duty kicks back in. In the land of wanting to write for myself more, albeit it be more in diary form than anything profound, I find myself coming here. And before I start putting all of my thoughts into words, I want to preface any future writings on here with the acknowledgment of how some people feel about shared "diaries." I've mentioned it before and after this, I won't mention it again. At least not for a while. And I know it may sound callous or rude - I'm not aiming for that. But I do want to make it abundantly clear that I'm not at all concerned about those opinions. I worry enough about other people's opinions in so many other spaces of my life -this won't be one of those spaces. When I come here to write, it's to escape that. You're allowed to have whatever opinions you like, of course. Just know that it doesn't have any impact on how much of my personal thoughts and feelings I choose to share here. And while it warms my soul when any of my stories touch someone else, that's still not why I'm doing it. This space is for me and me alone. I might be crying. I might be laughing. I might even be cussing. Because yes, I love Jesus AND cuss words. Sorry. 

Now. Where was I? Oh yes, the nice peaceful evening on my porch with the light breeze and a glass of wine. And those of you who are sick and tired of hearing about this story won't like it, but I was thinking about David. Truthfully, even years later, I find myself thinking about him often. I'm not even sure if it's the person himself that I'm so drawn to, or if it's just the lure of what I experienced in that moment of my life. It's the only time in my life that I felt truly alive. I'm not unhappy with my life. I have been in the past, but I'm not anymore. I have a good life. A hard life, but a good life. It's just that so much of my decision-making in the day-to-day is based on some aspect of fear. Fear of consequences or other people's opinions or whatever else. And for that one moment in time, I lived ABUNDANTLY. I cast away all fears and just went all in on life. And it felt so incredibly good. I miss it. Even in my previous solo trips that generated some pretty amazing memories, I can't say that I let go in the same way that I did going to Mexico. Or maybe the difference was that so many of my previous trips were some attempt to run away, while Mexico was an act of running towards something. 

Nonetheless, I'm now sitting here on my porch, dreaming of what I want in life. I used to dream of changing the world for the better. Leaving my footprint. I don't dream of that anymore. I love my job and the impact I get to be a part of there, and I'll do it for as long as God wills. I'll also still chase adventure when I can. But if I could just settle down on a body of water somewhere, I think I'd be content to never leave again. Maybe that will happen one day. Maybe it won't. I suppose time will tell. Regardless of where I am, the second part of that is doing it alone or with someone by my side. I'm content, but as the boys grow older and start to leave the nest, will that change? When it's just me, will I welcome the quiet or will I get lonely? I know I'll never stop being their mom, but my role as their mom is already changing. I keep saying that I'm looking forward to getting to do more for myself, and I am. But again, will that change when my alone time becomes more permanent? All of my alone time for the last 18 years has been temporary so I've always looked forward to it. But each day draws nearer to the ineviatable full fledge. 

The moon is out now.   

Now there's something to be in awe of. This natural satellite of this place we call home. So far away, yet seemingly close by and always influencing so much. Calling the shots on ocean tides, triggering mass spawning of corals, and providing us longer days thanks to its gravitational pull slowing Earth's spin. It's always the same, the moon. But our perceptions of it change depending on its current position to us and the sun. Sometimes we see a full moon, large and bright. Sometimes we see a portion of a crescent moon. light but visible. Sometimes we don't see the moon at all during the new moon phase. No matter our perspective, it's still there, doing the same job it has done for the entirety of its existence. It takes no note of our reaction, appreciation, or lack thereof; it simply shines and does its thing. 

My mom sent me a piece of writing by Matt Moberg that fits pretty well here, so I thought I'd add a small portion of it here... 

            And the air touches your face like it knows your whole story. 

            And suddenly you realize: all the real is actually unreal.

            The dirt. The breath. The fact that we are all here,

            on a floating rock with pollen counts, paying bills,

            missing dead people, loving living people...  and still,

            the moon clocks in. No applause. No benefits. No note from management

            saying, "Great work being ancient and luminous again." 

            Just the moon, working nights like a single mother with no applause,

            packing silver lunches for every dark thing that still has to rise.

            Tell me that isn't holy. Tell me there isn't a better word than sacred

            for the way light keeps returning 

            with no guarantee we will actually stop and take note

The author writes about the moon from a perspective of awe, but also certainty I think. Yet in the exact same piece, writes about the beauty of uncertainty, which seems contradictory, but I think really just attests to the beauty of both. He continues with... 

            Certainty never made me pull over because the sunset looked like                   
            God dropped a jar of peach jam across the whole midwestern sky
            and decided to be lazy and not clean up.
            Certainty has never made me gasp at rain on hot pavement.
            Certainty has never found me in the cereal aisle, holding Captain Crunch,
            suddenly remembering that everyone I have ever loved was made from stardust,
            hunger, and a series of decisions we probably should have slept on.
            No. It has always been awe. Awe was there with its wild hair and muddy feet,
            saying: Look. Look again. Look until looking becomes love. 

Anyway, I'm just over here thinking about things that are steady and things that are not. Things that are certain and things that are not. Things that are hard and things that bring awe. And all the things in between. If you made it this far, thanks for joining me.