It’s more often than I’d like to admit that I forget how old I am, forced to do some quick math.
It happened this morning, reading a post by a mother of four living in Europe with her love. A life I’d love to have— idyllic, full of laughter and early mornings and adventures in the English countryside for holiday. She’s the same age as I, and living a vastly different life. Yet, I feel that our hearts would find each other at a party and a friendship quickly bloom.
Her post stopped me (metaphorically, of course). My life and the years keep moving, even when my dreams stay stuck deep in the corners of my heart where they were planted over 20 years ago. We only have this one life, and I so want to make the days and minutes and years count. If I never get my deepest dreams, will I still live well? Can I live mindfully, creating a home that is welcoming and warm? One full of traditions and joy, candlelight and good food and cheap wine and music played by iPhone or record or instrument.
Yes. The answer is yes.
So, I’m writing. That’s how I process and remember (and future me will remember by reading!).
Halfway into 27 in just a few days, and almost to my 30s. May my life not just be marked by the “big” milestones like marriage and children and over-the-hill birthday celebrations (tho Lord, please make it so) but also by mornings with earl grey and the bible, by learning to garden in a rented space and inviting friends over to play games and share life.
may my moments and days count for much in the end. that I loved well, cared abundantly, and chose to see the hand of Joy and Peace in even the hardest of days.