I am now experiencing what I non-affectionately call “end o’ vacay letdown”. It sucks the big one. Please understand, I love my life dearly. I have no room to complain about it. And this is not one of those “I had an amazing time doing all of these outstanding things and now I’m whining about going back to work after 5 days in the sun” pity party kind of things. I’ve had those vacations. They’re fun and all, but I’m always kind of happy to return to the swing of things. But I don’t generally choose those kind of vacations. I instead find myself in a different kind of funk. The “could my life be different?” funk. I love the hustle and bustle of my job, I love being so close to the city, I love being close to people. But I often wonder about a different life. I think I could be content some place else, doing something else. Something small and insignificant and brilliant. Traveling and then settling in a small town close enough to things but just far enough away that I can see the middle of nowhere. Living a life of love and adventure in my own right.
I walked around the provincial town, spoke with residents, sat at their small restaurants for lunch and wondered what it would be like to be so remote, yet know everything going on. I saw men sit at the same coffee counter of the general store each day, smiling and talking, their sense of humor still intact. Nobody judging them for doing something what would be considered an insignificant job or existence in the city. Just being. I think there’s a difference being doing something “lower-end” and being “lower-end”. As I left, I waved goodbye to the sweet man who made me laugh and wondered about a different life.
Do you ever feel like you were destined for a greatness that isn’t yet around the bend? Sometimes I feel as though I will achieve everything I want to where I am and then one day just give it away for my own definition of something “better”. I know one day something will happen that will force me to make uncomfortable but necessary decisions. A parent will die and I will have to determine my own path. I will dig through the rumbled remnants of there now-gone life and contemplate what my own goodness is supposed to look like. It won’t be flowery or someone else’s definition of success, but rather my own.
I don’t know what it will look like. But I have a feeling it will involve sun . . . and snow.