I am, I want, I wish, etc.

I am bored and incredibly content, all at the same time.

I want to spend a lot of someone else's money ordering really neat organizing stuff from IKEA or Lee Valley and organize the garage, the garden shed, the basement, the inside of my head....

I wish for all people to learn to be less petty, more gracious, less judgemental, less afraid. (including myself)

I love vintage. I love finding an old dish, linen, card with a meaningful message in it in someone's handwriting. I love the fur on a cat's face, right up to its funny little mouth, and all around the eyes. I love toddlers when they learn words, and start to stick them together in unique ways. I love old wood, old picket, old buckets, old pots. I love enamel, china, quilts. I love people. I love the prairies.

I miss Rosa, Pam, and Lory so much that it physically hurts. This is joyfully painful because even three years after moving, I can't believe or forget how much they mean to me, and how I want to be in their presence, how I want to watch them raise their children, tend their gardens, hear them laugh, learn their wisdom.

I wonder why I feel confused much of the time. I wonder why I was chosen to have such a blessed life- decent parents and siblings, a secure childhood, a safe country, a loving husband, beautiful, talented, and whole children.

I regret all the time I've squandored believing lies. Lies about who culture says I should be, what I should look like. I regret all the energy I have spent either trying to become the lies, or trying to talk myself out of wanting to become the lies.

I am not book smart. After a grade 12 education majoring in the humanities, and a history minor at University, I only remember that there were a couple of big wars that killed a lot of people. And I still don't understand it at all.

I dance so badly, that I no longer pretend that its something I could learn to do. It all got repressed out of me at a very young age, and the only sort of dancing I aspire to do for the rest of my life is some lovely romantic ballroom with my very graceful and coordinated husband. That way I can just follow his lead, blame him with things go badly, and enjoy that earthy smell of skin and Hugo Boss on his neck.

I sing with great enthusiasm. When I sing in community I am whole. It gives me hope for humanity.

I cry ever so easily, whenever I feel passionately about anything, or anyone.

I am not coordinated. No one with any sense wants me on their team.

I make with my hands: lots of peanut butter and nutella sandwhiches, pillows and quilts, children's clothing, ecclectic backpacks and handbags,and great, sweeping motions.

I write because I am. It clears my mind. It makes me laugh.

I confuse most things. I get confused about theology, about human nature, mathematics- any numbers, in fact.

I should be more anal. I should set the table for breakfast, know what the after school snack will be, know where my keys and wallet are. I should be running again. What little muscle mass I had acquired below the belt has sagged back into ripples and dips. I should accept myself anyway, just the way I am and be a little less cruel to myself.

I finish my son's drippy ice cream cones instead of ordering one for myself.

How about you?