I can’t write when the ideas climb inside my head. Insread of taking root so that I can grasp them, holding them captive in hopes of putting them thought to pen to paper, they disappear like the dead leaves that lay on the ground, crisp, full of beauty, and blown away by the first good gust of wind that blows through my mind.
Which happens more than I’d like.
About the time my meds kick in to where my fingers will obey ME and not the dopamine deficient brain inside of my head, something distracts me, vies for my attention, insisting it’s importance and shoves any previous thoughts aside, to wait for another aforementioned gust of wind.
After the wind dies down and I remember I was telling myself I have no purpose, the back door opens to sounds of a little boy in rubber boots and a boy-blue raincoat. And he’s ready to go play. And jump in puddles. And make brownies. And clean the shower with his own spray bottle. And have a stuffed animal pillow fight. And go looking for acorns and watch the squirrel take the ones we leave for him atop the fence. And ‘Hi-Yah’ plastic bucket towers. And watch Agent Oso.
And suddenly I realize just how much purpose I have. And somehow, I am able to do it – care for this little grandson of mine – with or without this little monster that lurks inside that strives to insist that no one wants to bother with me anymore for I can be just that – a bother, a burden.
I can’t do this and I can’t do that and it’s…
So very frustrating.
I must repeat words. Constantly.
I must go slow. With everything.
Or so it seems.
I can’t busy myself with many wonderful chores or talents or projects that friends still do that I no longer can. But you know what?
It’s okay. Those things are no longer my purpose. And while sometimes I vie for the moments of painting again and leading children’s choirs and women’s groups, driving on field trips, teaching Bible studies and more, I do have a purpose. A most wonderful purpose.
That little boy in blue.