Marilyn Monroe, 1949, via Historiful
Some days . . . life just flows right on through you, clean and good and sparkling with a sense of rightness. Everything is in its place and you are in your place and you don't even think two thoughts about it because you're too busy being.
Other days . . . the words ain't coming and your husband keeps interrupting and even if you can see the rocky path beneath your feet you keep tripping over everything, including your own shoelaces, including but-there-was-nothing-but-air-down-there!, kicking up dirt and ill-will as you go.
Please tell me you know what I mean?
Today I got my hair styled up and my toenails painted orange, and that feels damn good. I ate a few servings of vegetables at dinner (including my greens) and have been chug-a-lugging water all day in the hopes of clearing up whatever skin thing this is starting to constellate on my forehead. I have reason enough for thanks and praise on this day.
But even so, the loss of balance looms: I can't find my footing (but hey, you're not falling!), I still don't know just what I'm "supposed to" be (wait, is this it?!). Can't seem to rest easy in the questions, in the knowing it'll sort itself out one way or another.
Because it always does.
You distract yourself for a while, roll with the ups and downs of the seemingly inevitable drama, and meanwhile life is happening, going on right there all the time whether you notice or not. So small, so clickety-clacking-right-along in the background, the custodian of your big ideas, the long-haul trucker of your meant-to-be's, steady steady 1-2-3, until . . .
BOOM. You see. You're there. For the first time, the fifth time, the twenty-sixth time, you snap into it: Into the moment, the perfection before you, the rightness that is always-and-ever-shall-be.
But for me, for now, there's the meantime.