procrastinating responsibility

I am old and wandering. I have walked through 32 years; adventuring, exploring, studying, traveling, befriending, working, playing, driving, flying, reading, eating, cooking, dancing, skiing, swimming, surfing, hugging, loving, crying, moving, running, never settling – I’ve never had to.

Soaking in the hot tub taking in the mountain backdrop and golden aspen leaves dancing, I am safe, protected and delighting in the friendship growing with my aunt and uncle. Invited out of the city to rest in the mountains, I marvel to them that between their gracious invitations and my parents’ homes I have absolutely no incentive to grow up and lead a responsible life.

I am nomadic. Searching. Single. Driven. Accomplished. Poised. Girlish. Strong enough to tackle the world, yet longing to be protected from it.

I am an American woman. Free to roam the globe and expecting I will be safe doing it. I refuse to slow down, rather rushing here and there in my heels frantic to make meaning of my small life and desperate to be released from such pursuit.

Perhaps meaning is less the elusive objective and more a daily choice; defined by my actuating it rather than my seeking after it. Each moment is enough and they all add up to infinite blessing.

Perhaps I will eventually dig into the ground and establish some roots; finding nourishment in the waters that flow by me rather than my seeking to obtain it. Perhaps I will have the same privilege of feeding and clothing and housing those in need; pouring out the blessing that has been poured into me. Perhaps someday I will have a couch – a testament to the era in which I made that momentous choice to build a home. Perhaps I will have my own closet and kitchen and laundry room.

Then again, I have found the kitchens and washers and porch views of my friends and family to meet my need. And as I slip back into the warm water of the hot tub with the stars dancing above me, any motivation I had to find maturity and grow up slowly oozes from my skin and dissolves in the slow tumble of jet-propelled water.

Growing up, it seems, will have to wait yet another day.