Busy Living

I love writing. It feels cathartic to write my worries and even to share my triumphs. But I sound like a broken record and I get sick of listening to myself spew out the same old crap on a different day. Is anyone really that interested that they want to read the ins and outs of my simple complex life?

Yesterday, I read about a woman who lost her life birthing twins. It seems so unfair that this bright star gets snuffed out in the beginning of her journey through motherhood. It was all she ever wanted, to become a mother. All those two tiny beings will ever want is a mother. She's gone. She was loved by many and admired by even more with her music and loving light that she showed the world regardless of her troubles. Why her? Why someone who spreads goodness where ever they go? I don't get it.

As life goes on, I get more and more confused. It is indescribable to me the amazement of it all, the pain of it all. I suppose the one job we have is to live only in the present so we don't waste another minute. We worry, we rehash every mistake made in our lives over and over, define ourselves by them even.

I am lucky enough to still have my ticket with time left on it. I know there's no guarantee in life and I should be more involved in the moment I'm living right now. But where do you start? In this very moment I guess. I have done a lot of good, I've done a lot of bad. Impulsive and remorseful. I'd rather be mindful and grateful. One day at a time.

My family is special. My marriage with Jamie isn't perfect but it's made of something stronger than I sometimes give us credit for. We have ebbs and flows just like a marriage should. But at the end of the day we cleave to each other for support and love. I am safe in his house and I don't want to build another. We were given three daughters to protect and guide through all of the obstacles that childhood presents and we're doing a great job. I put one foot in front of the other like I have it all together but on the inside.....the inside sometimes feels like a whole different world.

I'm growing. I'm changing. I'm living. All I can say is wow. My story isn't clean cut, it has jagged edges and rough surfaces. Is it like that for everyone? Is there such a thing as contentment? And how do you achieve this state of mind? I think maybe I over think it all. Too much, too little. Never just enough.