When I was a little one, I used to play a fair amount of softball. Aside from all of my then-close friends running around alongside me on the field, it wasn’t something I was particularly fanatical about. But, like a lot of things in childhood, you just did it, and your parents kept signing you up because you didn’t think twice about not doing it.
I remember coming home from one game mid-summer and having my Mom congratulate me on hitting the game winning run. This was surprising news to me (if that gives you any idea of my interest or cognizant participation).
I was on the All Star team. I went to pitching workshops. And then I quit a couple of years into Fast Pitch because it terrified me.
My loving, tolerant, comical father opted to coach a couple of those memory laden years.
Or was it just one? …
Anywho, not really relevant.
We used to practice in this big park, and at the end of those practices we’d all run amuck (I just looked up “amuck” to make sure I was using it in the correct context, and though I’m not, I’m leaving it there for the sheer enjoyment of the image it put in my head) and play in the dirt…and whatever else it was that kids did back then.
I, for some reason, distinctly remember attempting to…and failing miserably at…chasing down my dear Dad. I would run after him to the point of exhaustion.
And when I couldn’t run anymore, I would stop and whine incessantly that he wouldn’t let me catch him.
I was not fast.
I’m still not fast (…leave it alone).
I’m not really sure why that memory is one that circles back to me so often. In my (extensive and professional (hah)) experience as a writer, I’ve come to understand that these recurring thoughts just need to be ousted sometimes.
So, here I am. I was probably due anyway, eh?
I’ve written a few blogs about my need to try on a hat store worth of life situations and circumstances. I’ve learned a lot, I’ve participated in endless “adventures,” and I’ve come full circle in the way of experiencing the never-ending facsimile of human emotion induced by said adventures.
At some point, though, I thought that surely my constant expeditions into the realm of the unknown would return to me some shining, serendipitous glimmer of knowledge.
And by knowledge I mean some resting place inside of the ever strained for ideal of contentment.
(this is the fun part where I draw a parallel)
There’s been several times in my life when I thought I’d caught what it was that I was chasing after. After closer examination I realized it as momentarily satisfactory, and started to pick up the pace of my footfalls all over again.
I have no idea what I’m looking for. I’ve spent my entire life flinging open doors and taste testing the world and sticking my feet inside of shoes I had no business moving around in.
And I still can’t shake this ongoing feeling of discontentment.
So, consider this post the point where I stop in my tracks and whine incessantly.
Oh, it’s happening. I’ve been whining via the overconsumption of words, frozen yogurt, and Netflix for the last week or so. Thankfully, I don’t know how much more of myself I can take, and so I foresee it ending fairly soon.
But then what?
Maybe it’s time for a different means of travel.
Perhaps a change of scenery?
Note: If you’re wondering about the “featured image” used for this post, I really don’t have an explanation for it. It’s an artist of Etsy (http://www.etsy.com/shop/tastesorangey) who I’m currently obsessing over. L-O-V-E her.