When we moved into our new home recently, I had an idea of what life would be: crisp, sunny mornings on what we call the coffee deck, sipping the perfect hazelnut cup with a Dove dark chocolate square melting in my mouth while I read inspiring words by one of my favorite authors or write longhand in a journal or sketch out a rough draft on my laptop or pen a thoughtful note to a friend in a witty or lovely or heartwarming card. I would take the next year off from the real-world of working full-time on someone else’s schedule and focus on my health and my family and my writing. I wouldn’t feel rushed or stressed or lost or lonely. But in reality, it’s taking weeks to unpack, it’s rained almost every day since we arrived, and it’s after dark when I finally sit down at the cluttered kitchen table to coax a few stubborn words from my fingertips. Despite my intentions, I accepted another full-time job. It will offer me many benefits, but time is not one of them.
This is not what I had planned. Still, when I step out on the deck and look past the pergola, the night stretches out before me, promising tomorrow.