Returning home.

I called this Blog, Living Inspired, yet when it comes time to write, my own inspiration seems to run dry. I now realize that I have been trying too hard. Inspiration is not something that can be forced or created. It has to find you. As it turns out, I was reintroduced to my inspiration recently, while taking a morning walk through a local park. I went for the exercise and left with much more.

That crisp autumn morning, everything felt the same. It looked the same. It even smelled the same. Yet so many things were not the same. I used to go to this spot on the river often, when I was a teenager. Usually it was when life had become 'too much', and I needed to escape into solitude, sit with my deepest thoughts and figure out what was next. Usually, when I came down to the river, I would brood over family, friends, school, and boys - not necessarily in that order.

I would think about my parents and siblings, and the pull I felt between independence and loyalty. I would think about friends and how difficult it was to stay myself and still fit in with the crowd. I would think about school and work, how to get it all done, and why. And the boys...Well, I thought lots of things about boys, some of which I will keep to myself, at least for now. But what I remember most is that I so often longed for more...needed more - and sometimes cried for more.

There is a quote by Nelson Mandela that reads "There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." And on that recent day, sitting by the river in the filtered September sunlight, I discovered how much I had altered.

Here I was, 20 years later, walking the same trails, sitting on the same riverside boulders, and thinking. I was thinking about my husband and children, and the pull I sometimes feel between independence and loyalty. I thought about my friends and the delicate balance between 'benevolent superficiality'(yes, I really thought that), and authenticity. I thought about school and work, how to get it all done, and why. And yes, I even thought about 'boys', although realistically 'boys' is no longer an accurate description. The difference this time, and the realization that drew a different kind of tear, was that on this day I looked at everything from a perspective of absolute gratitude. I realized the 'need' was gone. Certainly I am not suggesting that life is now perfect. But somehow I have found a sort of perfection in the imperfect. I feel grateful for the incomplete, the confusing, and the contrast. 'Perhaps', I realized, 'it is the siren call of my own inspiration.'

Living Inspired, while undoubtedly a worthwhile ideal, may not be all sunshine, lollypops, and butterflies. Not if it is to remain authentic. Sometime 'Living' has rough edges, missing bits, or tear stains. And sometimes, I learned, it takes a visit to "a place that remains unchanged", to show us how far we have come. To settle us, and to allow the inspiration to find us.