People will always compare. Houses. Websites. Titles. Jobs. Family. Photos. And on and on and on. Somewhere in all the comparing I don't want to measure up. I don't want to write anymore if it means I'll be compared to some author; I want to write my own writing, to be my own me. And I don't need the title, I don't go by the title or author or editor or writer. The hardest job I've ever taken on is the one that is 24-7 has the title of Mom. Some days we dance through the day with my hair pulled back in a thick curly bun at the nape of my neck, other days I put on flip flops and he runs through grass while I water the garden. How is it others may look at my life and be tempted to compare? How is it I am tempted to compare my life to yours?
But when I see his feet run through the grass, and the breeze take his walker tumbling across the front yard, I know this is my life. This is our life. We aren't promised tomorrow for a better go at it, or the next day for a do-over. When my washed hair (to -ahem-remove the outdoor pollen) hits the pillow and I close my eyes at night I hope I've lived the day with a spirit of thankfulness for this life and what I've been given. When the car gives out at the corner and I have to walk home, I hope I live that life is more than cars and going and personal freedom. My heart always return to the place I love best, and my feet follow. Home.
(And according to my Mother-in-law I've made some progress towards becoming a pioneer woman. I'm just not sure I have wagon to go with the title. I'm pretty sure I have a wok, though. And a car. It doesn't drive presently so I'll be walking.)