“We are always getting ready to live but never living.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
This has always been a big thing for me. I was always just trying to get organised. Trying to get myself sorted. When I had enough money. When I had enough time. Then I would get on with things. Properly.
But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about life. And how short it is. You know, I’ve been thinking about death. And how it’s coming. Yes, I am a riot at parties. (I did actually talk to my cousin about this at my sister’s 40th. No wonder she was drinking.) I don’t exactly feel morbid about it, I just feel like I wasted a lot of time (not lately, but certainly in my 20s and early 30s) and I don’t want to waste any more.
I’m lucky that my life is lovely right now. I love having the boys home. I love writing. Even David’s job has worked out so that he can have extra time at home. I’ve decluttered. I’m good to go.
And it’s given me a slight sense of unease. Not just that writing the above seems like I’m just willing something to go wrong* (I want to say ‘touch wood’ but I’m not superstitious), but because ‘if I can just get organised’ has been in the background, sucking my energy, for so long, that I feel a bit lost without it. Before I write for the day, I look around for something to do, but it’s done.** Or I read a chapter and think, “I’ll just…” What?
It’s most odd. But I’m getting used to it.
* This is where I get properly morbid. We’ll be driving along in the car, laughing, singing, and I’ll think “If this was a film we’d be mowed down by a truck about now.” Or I think that someone will be reading this blog post and thinking “She was so happy… and now she’s dead.”
** Honestly, it’s not all done. There is LOADS to do in the house. But it’s all big stuff, not the ‘organise filing, sort out books, get rid of old paint cans’ stuff that bothered me for years.