The past couple mornings, the time of day where I’m consistently alone and have time and room to think, I’ve ended up unhappy with the amount of time and frequency I find myself thinking about “coming back.”
It’s like I’m being pulled in by the gravity I warned myself about… thoughts of returning to normal, ideas and plans and preparation. While these bothersome thoughts haven’t yet blotted out my enjoyment of the trip at hand, I’m worried at their increase.
I can see the turn in my writing, also. Using “me” and “I” much too often, giving everything a self-absorbed tone that turns me off as a reader. Telling the outer story as opposed to the inner one, or worse trying, stretching, to tell the outer because I should. Because I’m growing distracted.
For now, the worrisome thinking is fleeting, easily washed under by the everyday that is our world now. Walking up switchbacks to a waterfall or catching an Uber into town. Snuggling with the kids, making up stories or rehashing inside jokes we’ve been building on now for seven months. Baking cookies or bread. Kicking the kids outside to make love. Listening to the wind in the trees at night in the absolute coal black darkness.
Thing is, I’ve grown greedy. I want this world, these moments, everyday. Not just as things or moments we have to seek out intentionally because normal life lacks them, but as our everyday normal. Not relegated to weekend trips to take a break or family movie night to share a couch.
It’s not about the RV, the job, the location, the bank balance… it’s about being steeped in each other so deeply. I don’t know if my greed for that even has an end. I’ve not found it yet, and this construct is temporary. Makes sense, then, that my thoughts sour as I contemplate it coming to a close.
Until later then. Love.