Kangatopia

I don’t need a vacation. I need several weeks, maybe a year of not meeting anyone’s expectations other than my own and my family’s. To not have to perform the duties of a job I have found to be the most servile catering to the worst aspects of the human ego.

I’ve developed a little bit of self hatred through writing in this blog. The past few years of writing here have given me some release, a place in which to deposit the ideas, thoughts, memories which would otherwise be lost to nothing. If I didn’t write here, my daughters would probably not remember their bedtime rhyme, “Goodnight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Goodnight” or my son would forget that he once named all of us after Winnie the Pooh characters, hence the name Kanga. Still, it hasn’t been lost on me that this blog is more about me than them. My desperate searches and me. My self-deceiving narcissism.

Every once in a while I will sit in front of this monitor, and a tiny little hint of inspiration will strike. Then, I will feverishly type until it’s exhausted. Or I will be performing some task that takes very little attention, such as folding clothes, and I will begin thinking in words, phrases and passages that might find their way eventually into a post – if I can remember it long enough to write it all out. That’s what has happened tonight. I was folding clothes and thinking about how great it would feel to have a much stronger sense of who I am and my purpose.

I am pretty well convinced that purpose is not thrust upon any one of us from an external source. The inspiration came come externally, but the decision to act or not act is a decision we make on our own based on a specific set of factors customized by our personalities and the circumstances of our life. My purpose in life may very well be to raise my three children, and I am perfectly happy with that now. This contentment is recent though, and still – most likely – a work in progress.