Marilyn Monroe once said something along the lines of ‘fame will go but that’s fine. It isn’t where I live’. It strikes a chord in me. Not fame but the things that have defined my adult life, being a wife and a mother, is not where I live. There is a guilt that comes with that thought.
I do not want the people around me to realise that there is a pip of a feeling that I have given a part of the essence of me away to be the person they needed me to be. I long to germinate the creative seed that has been hibernating deep within, held in cold storage while I have tried to provide for my kith and kin both materially and emotionally. This year I reached my half century. The yearning gained in strength. My children are almost grown and my relationship with my soul mate has grooved a smooth and easy path that encounters few obstacles. Is it time now?
Can I let out a sigh, turn away from some of my responsibilities and look within. Find the inner fulfillment that does not mean I do not and have not loved being a mother and a wife but that I can finally search and find the elusive creative particle.
Fresh snow has always been an awe inspiring thing of beauty to me. No matter what lies beneath, the world looks clean and new for a few hours. It is a very human draw to be the first to step across the blank canvas, leaving evidence of your existence where no one else has. This post is my first footsteps in new snow. I have never written anything to be viewed publicly before. It is frightening, daunting, unnerving. At the same time it is exciting, satisfying, making time to think my own thoughts. So, I begin my search for where ‘I’ live on this page. On this fall of fresh snow. Should I publish or keep this just for me? It would be easy to pretend I don’t want anyone to read this but it would not be true. Like the footsteps it is evidence of my existence.