Lost

Do you ever wonder what you're here for? I mean, what you're HERE for? Other than going about your day-to-day business and busy-ness. I feel like I should have a bigger purpose. But maybe I'm reading too much into this thing we call life, and there is no purpose other than to be.

I feel thankful that I get to be. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to be here. To have the opportunity to live. To have my senses... to see, to touch, to hear, to taste, to smell. I love that I can listen to wind chimes, see the autumn leaves change color, hug someone, read books, smell freshly brewed coffee. I cherish my relationships with family and friends, and those random sweet interactions you sometimes stumble upon with a total stranger. I feel blessed that I have the ability to learn... and learn some more... and then even more. That I am healthy. That I have freedom. 

Maybe sometimes I take all of these things for granted and want more than I should... more than I am entitled to have... but I can't seem to help it. I feel like I am continually searching for something that's missing. Because there is something missing in my restless soul. And I feel guilty for having that emptiness inside me. It isn't fair to others who are missing basic needs, basic freedoms, the ability to walk around the block, the chance to go to college, all of the opportunities I have had and continue to have. Therefore, it creates such inner turmoil. I practically make myself sick. But I'm human! I'm human, and so very flawed. 

"Meant to be." I say this sometimes, in a flippant way, that something was meant to be... or perhaps not meant to be. But, really, that's just silly. The universe is not out there creating my destiny. Right? Aren't I responsible for creating my destiny? Regardless, sometimes I feel that my purpose is to be a mother. That I was MEANT TO BE a mother. I do feel this, in my gut. I went through a lot to become a mom... and I think I'm a damn good mom. My daughter... oh my goodness, my daughter. That I helped create this person practically blows my mind. She is truly a gift to the world. Maybe I am here to help guide her, to help teach her, to help support her... so that she can have a truly genuine life. A life of her own making. Where dreams come true! Where she will experience all of the wonders of love and the mysteries that await around every corner. I want this for her. For her to be brave, successful, adventurous... happy. Oh, that elusive happiness.

But she is her own person, and my purpose in life can't be solely tied up in being her mother.

So then, sometimes I think, oh, I missed my calling. I should have been a writer. Not because I'm so grand. Maybe simply because I have so much to say... and my Facebook friends are getting tired of me. I make them weary, with all of my ramblings... hell, I make myself weary. But still. Maybe a book is my purpose? Not as some amazing literature that will long be remembered when I'm gone... but maybe just to touch a handful of people. Do I have the ability to make someone feel something? Through my words? How I would love that. To write something that might make someone stop in their tracks and think... yes. Yes, I get that. I have felt that way. I understand.

My mind is kind of obsessive. I try to shut it off. Shut 'er down, puh-leeze! I mean, really. Who do I think I am?

I am really just nobody. Just a simple girl. Making my way through the madness, without a map to guide me. Lost in the wilderness, sometimes found. Always looking for the North Star.