It is early in the morning. The kids are still asleep. It is one of those rare weekend mornings when I have the house to myself and nothing on my agenda, not even making breakfast. The air is chill, in the upper fifties. I am walking around in a gray faded capris and a much-loved tee shirt that says “I don’t sweat, I sparkle”.
My feet are cold. My being is restless. I sit. I stand. I walk. I pace like a caged animal not quite sure what the problem is. I doodle too. I switch between my social media accounts. I crave talking to a human.
It is one of those periods in my life when I am waiting. I am in my liminal space. I am waiting for summer to begin. I am waiting for direction professionally. I am turning over things in my head that affect my children. None of these things have any urgency to them. Talking about it to other people may help but I instinctively know I will resent the judgment that comes with sharing.
It hits me while I make pictures of stars and eyes on a sheet of paper that most of our issues have to do with the human connection or lack thereof. Love, companionship, understanding, empathy, compassion, we look for it around us. We search for the highs a connection sparks. We attempt to replicate it time and again and feel desolation when it does not happen.
Some of us turn inward, pointing that light back toward us creating an illusion of independence. Some fall into the cycle of searching and failing. Yet others compose songs, write poetry or scribble in their journals.
When we stumble on that piece of art that connects to the feeling inside us, there is something magical about it. We find that human connection through words, through music, through our eyes.
And, for a while, it sates us.
