Finding Contentment

I've found myself pulled in so many directions lately.

a sunset over a body of water. The sky is a mix of blue and pink, with the sun setting in the center.
Image created via Midjourney

My oldest son is 14. I'm increasingly aware that I only have a few years left to teach him things about the world. Maybe less. Maybe he'll decide that he no longer wants to listen to me. Or that he knows better about the world, as teenagers often think. I certainly thought so, when I was his age.

It was Spring Break this past week. I spent a little 1:1 time with each of my kiddos. With my oldest, we went to a forest preserve. He wanted to go for a run. It was more like a run/walk. I like running, but he runs cross-country and track so he is a lot faster than me.

I didn't want to hold him back, so I told him to run ahead and then wait for me. He replied, "But then I wouldn't get to spend time with you." So he stayed at my pace.

Last night, we were watching a movie, and he wanted to snuggle up with me on the couch. Even though he is now several inches taller than me, he still wanted to snuggle like a little boy.

I've found myself pulled in so many directions lately. I embarked on this new(ish) career of creative work only a few years ago. There are so many things I want to do. And yet it's also a busy time in my life. My two oldest kids were in the middle school play recently. My youngest does an after-school art program. Our weekends are often busy.

So I have these plans and often find that I can't get everything done that I want to do. Today, I had plans. I wanted to do some prep ahead of a week of writing. Instead, Ger and I went for a walk with the six-year-old. She played at the nearby park while we sat and talked.

I love what I do, yet I'm always itching to do more. I wish I had days (or weeks) to myself when I could just catch up or finish something I'd set out to do.

Every week – every week — I set out with a list of things I want to work on. By the end of the week, only a few are crossed off. Something unexpected always comes up. The time was there, in theory. But something more important demanded my attention.

And that's the hard thing to acknowledge. What's more important? Do prolific, dedicated writers eschew their families and other responsibilities? Do they sleep less? How do they find the time?

I'm torn between being content with what I can get done and being frustrated that I can't do more.

A New Chapter
It is a bittersweet day.
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