Waiting for life to begin

On my way home the other day, I asked myself, “Why are you still waiting for life to begin?” I had no answer.

Tidy piles of notepads, greeting cards, sketch pads and boxes of pens and pencils are stored in many cupboards and on shelves around the house. Blank sheets of manuscript paper are waiting for me to transcribe those melodies and songs that keep churning around in my head. They are waiting for the day when my life is in order, and I can start doing what I imagined I would be doing as an adult. Instead, one urgent project after another fills every minute of my days.

This is the year I am working on semi-retiring, whatever that means. So far it has involved a major shift from working 12 hour days to actual work only 2-5 hours a day, but still no time to really start living.

I can blame the pandemic, and my hesitancy to get out and face crowds of people, but someday I’ll have to admit that what started out as a 2-week or 2-month inconvenience has grown into 2 1/2 years of uncertainty, and it is not just going to magically go away.

How much longer will I be waiting for my real life to begin?