Friday, 3 February 2012
It's that time of year again. The monotonous bleakness of winter combined with the first tantalising promises of Spring have churned up the restlessness that's forever sleeping in my soul and my toes are itching for change.
Dreams of other lives are tormenting my present and ambitions that I thought I'd forgotten are raising their heads and looking me square in the eye.
I want to hear my feet clipping down foreign city streets; I want to wake up in new places and wonder what the day will have in store; I want to dance and run; I want to do wild and improbable things; I want to create something beautiful and important; I want to change the world.
But instead my days are spent walking behind my boy as he climbs the same set of steps over and over again, stooping to pick up dropped mittens and wriggling them onto his fists, listening to him saying "da-cho bye!" and responding with a cheery "bye!" every single time, making sure that I'm home by midday so that our peaceful afternoon routine will remain undisturbed, and tucking him up in bed with his rabbit and polar bear by eight.
And by the time he's asleep my body is so exhausted, my mind is so numb and my life is so firmly set at toddler pace that I have no idea how to pick up the pieces of my own ambitions and I decide that changing the world must wait.
I know that "to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens" and I remind myself over and over again that this is the season for picking up mittens and climbing staircases slowly, but there are days when this is enough and there are days when the itching in my toes makes climbing staircases slowly a very tedious business indeed.