I wish you could have seen the Seine this morning but I didn’t have my bulky camera with me when I went walking. It looked just like this if you color it winter.
It is so grey today, but that only accentuated the beauty of the river and the weeping willows lining the bank.
The view to the right is of stone houses set on a hill – almost an entire stone village, created in a different time. The path at my feet is light brown sand with white snow on it, and even the grass to the side manages to take on a grey hue in this dismal weather.
The river is almost black but there are spots of white in stark contrast where swans glide further out, bobbing for food. A duck waddles by on the bank with a green incandescent neck, following his more subdued brown mate diligently.
As I head back home a mist starts to fall that hasn’t yet decided whether it’s snow or rain. It completes a picture so grey and dreary that my mood can only look bright next to it.
I started to perk up yesterday when we had some friends over for a meal and a Bible study. In this case, I was teaching because someone wanted to learn the basics. I realized I’m good at that. I perked up even more when my husband finally started to hang the family pictures on our white blank stairwell (you all saw the pictures in the last post and how desperately that wall needed something). It’s about time, but I couldn’t do it myself. I realized I’m not good at that.
That helped clarify something for me – I like the freedom of being a stay-at-home mom, but the things that seem to define a stay-at-home mom: decorating, cleaning, arts and crafts, cooking … well I’m not good at (or don’t enjoy all that much) any of them except cooking.
Sure I can hug, I can listen, I can make sure my children are warm and well-fed and do the occasional English lesson to make sure they don’t fall too far behind, even drum up the very occasional craft. (And yes, I love them very deeply).
But it’s hard to be satisfied with an existence in which you enjoy so few of the things that define it.
I teach English because I can and because it’s needed, but I’m usually more relieved when the class is over than I am fulfilled while teaching it. Writing is something I truly enjoy, but I knock my head against the wall time and again trying to weave a plot. It’s absolutely hopeless! I can only write snippets, brief scenes from life – mine or someone else who inspires me.
All of these revelations brought clarity, but where do I turn now? This question is nothing new in the universe, but I’m curious about you. Are you doing what you love or working towards it? Or are you just moseying along, hoping you’ll stumble on it?
And, like me, trying not to think about how sad that is?