I have everything I wanted. Two months ago, walking (read: no gas in my car, no money for parking), I said out loud, to the people of the street, that all I wanted was enough money to buy books. And pay for rent. And food. But book money trumps shelter and snacks when your brain’s thirsty. Book money would feel like success. Book money would mean I’d made it.
I have book money now. And rent money. And food money. And that should be enough. I read a book this weekend that was so good it made me scream. I baked chocolate chip muffins because I can afford the ingredients. I opened up my apartment and let the sun creep in. I laid on the floor. I lit some candles. Drew some pentagrams. All of this because I’m a good witch and because I finally feel I can bask in the semidarkness of my leased cave. Things are good. But why then do I not feel completely satisfied? Why can't I drink from this more than half full glass? Why does this camel want a third hump?
The answer is because I’m a greedy pig-man with dollar signs in my eyes and ambition in my pockets. I’ve never been apt at allowing myself a moment to breathe in the good. To soak up the sunshine of a steady feeling. To calm the voice that wants more. That version of me, the one walking down the street, shouting about his need to feast eyes on the newest bestseller, could not imagine wanting more. Which makes present-me a schmuck. A robber baron. I’m Yosemite Sam, guns aimed at my accomplishments, spitting threats at any sign of pride. So say yer prayers, ya long-eared galoot! This flea-bitten fella’s got bigger fish to fry. A sea of fish! All your fish will die!
Of course that’s all wrong. I have to take a moment, many moments, to inhale the good scents of my life. To recognize my place. To do the work and put in the time and learn a few things about what it means to be where I am. I have to bask in this sunshine. I have to live in these hours. I’m a young thing and I want to conquer the world, but pretending to have conquered my current world, my good, book-affording world, won’t lead me on the path of ruling the universe. Only committing myself to Zor will. May his tentacles always be slimy.
But I'm not sure how to totally let go my affinity for plans. My perceived responsibilities toward a better future, a bigger pay check, a more widely published brain-unit. And maybe I'm not supposed to give up on that entirely. But dialing back and allowing time to be satisfied – that must be a nice thing. And I deserve nice things. I'm a skinny gal with a bow leg. The world is my day-old oyster. Got to drink up.
I am learning, though. I’ve gotten better at finding satisfaction in the melodies of present day. I’m owning my space at work. I’m finding time to write things that matter to me. I'm baking at a skill level most domesticated socialites would envy. I’m parent to a beautiful young succulent. And I have an Amazon wish-list, carefully budgeted out and planned for the most economic and satisfying reading experiences. Maybe sometime soon I’ll have the money to buy local. But I can’t think about that right now. I have to water my son.