I am grateful, sad, scared, and in the middle of my life.

With so much gratitude to Alana at Whole Self Coach for this wonderful meme, and belated thanks for the Sunshine Award! I’d love to hear any of your answers to these simple but thought-provoking questions

I am: Sitting in bed next to my son. Grateful. Sad. Scared of change. In the middle of my life.

I think: Too much. Sometimes self-defeatingly.

I know: Less than ever, almost nothing for sure.

I want: To believe in something. To know that my faith will catch me if I fall and that there is grace for us all.

I have: So much more than I need.

I dislike: Entitlement. Unkindness. Rudeness.

I miss: My grandmothers.

I fear: Abandonment. Loss. That I am squandering my life.

I feel: All the time. So intensely that it often makes me cry.

I hear: My son whispering to himself as he builds a Lego on the floor next to me.

I smell: Sunscreen, laundry, and, faintly, the Goldfish he is eating.

I crave: Safety. To be seen and known, completely, and loved anyway.

I usually: Take things far too personally.

I search: For the glowing, surpassing sense of peace that visits me, infrequently but undeniably. Usually it comes in words, the sky, or the sleeping faces of my children.

I wonder: What the months and years ahead hold. What Grace and Whit will remember from these days. What I am supposed to be doing in the world.

I regret: More than I can enumerate.

I love: My children. My family. My dearest friends, who know who they are. Words. Running. The sky.

I care: Deeply. About homelessness. About education. That the people who matter to me know that they are loved.

I am always: Early.

I worry: About big things that I cannot control. The economy. The environment. Change in general. As a child, every single night, I prayed that there be peace on earth and no nuclear war. Literally, for years and years that was the one thing I prayed for.

I remember: Many small moments, preserved like so many tiny jeweled Faberge eggs in my memory. My teacher, Mr. Valhouli, who was the first person to really light me on fire about the power of words and literature.

I dance: Infrequently. Dancing with me is like driving a truck.

I sing: Poorly. It is the thing I am worst at in the world.

I don’t always: Remember that most of what other people say and do is about them, not me.

I argue: Too often.

I write: Because I can’t not. To find out what I think.

I lose: At board games and leisure sports, all the time.

I wish: That everyone had a roof over their head. That I could turn off my brain sometimes. That I could be a more sunny and more serene mother for my children.

I listen: Not as well as I should.

I don’t understand: Very much at all.

I can usually be found: At my computer, in my little third-floor office looking out of the window.

I am scared: That the people I love most will leave me. That I am not contributing enough to the world.

I need: 8 hours of sleep a night.

I forget: How to speak French. Almost anything of importance. My own email address, sometimes.

I am happy: Near the ocean. On transatlantic flights. In the pages of a beautiful book. When I am able to be still with my children. In the presence of dear, trusted native-speaker friends.

14 thoughts on “I am grateful, sad, scared, and in the middle of my life.”

  1. You have: Many friends who think you are an incredible gift to mankind. And an enormous talent, not only for writing, but for opening your heart in a way that is seldom witnessed.

  4. you always blow me away with your utter rawness and the beauty that can’t help but emanate from it. i haven’t been reading many blogs lately, and reading this (even just a meme!) reminds me that i need to be here more often. your words somehow feed a piece of my soul, lindsey. you give me faith in mothers everywhere, and help me understand my own mother a little bit better. not because you’re all that much like she was, but because you are a mother and i see your thought processes so beautifully shared, which gives me hope that my mother had some beautiful processes, too. thank you for that.

  5. Stunning. This fills me up and gives me great fodder for reflection.

    My favorite one? “I regret: More than I can enumerate.” It is bittersweet. I appreciate that you didn’t answer that you regret nothing. You are brave to admit you have regrets, and this is something I really relate to. Part of growing and learning about ourselves seems to be realizing our mistakes and recognizing our regrets. Not to feel bitter about them, to worry about them, but to acknowledge them and let them go.

  8. Love your thoughts shared in this post, Lindsey.

    “Many small moments, preserved like so many tiny jeweled Faberge eggs in my memory.”

    I fear that I’m squandering my life, too. One of my biggest fears is to someday look back at my 30’s and wish I’d done something (anything) different. Gah!

  10. Oh, sweet thing. You feel so much that sometimes I think you’re just an open wound. But that same vulnerability makes you one great writer.

    And whippersnapper, you are NOT in the middle of your life…unless you plan on dying before age 70! You have plenty of time to nurture your inner badass 🙂

  11. When I see that you have a new post, I don’t always run immediately to your blog. Instead, I use that knowledge as a motivator to finish whatever task is at hand. And then I dive in, ready to languish over your words.

    You normalize life for me.

    Write on, girl.

  13. Pingback: I know but I forget : You had me at neurotic

  14. Lindsay, I am drawn in over and over again by your writing. I feel an intense connection to much of what you write and I am tremendously gratful for it. From what I can see, and I’ve only been following for a few short weeks so still have lots to catch up on, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You are an inspiring, beautiful woman.

    I could relate to many of your revelations here, but I was most struck by what you said about writing. That you write to find out what you think. My goodness, I’m exactly the same. I’ve only just discovered this part of myself, and it’s freeing.

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