Purpose in the detour

What is purpose?  A life devoted to that which feeds the soul?  To pursue that goal in the name of love, of enlightenment and all that is true to the self?

I envy those that can do it, not with hatred; merely a coveting of the free time to pursue the actions of the heart.

Now I would not, for one second, wish my children or my life to be anything than what it is.  I could have taken the path to follow my dreams as a young girl but given the frame of mind I had then, I wouldn't have survived in such a brutal industry and most likely would have come to some unfortunate end.  I was mildly put out but followed Dad's wishes and toddled off to college to get some skillz.

I find these days, a frustration swimming below the surface; I want to do and see and take part, but I am not in a position to do so.  I find other avenues which take longer, are less nerve-wracking but are still satisfying.  Until I find that they are unsatisfying to others who would help propel my purpose forward.

There are old hands out there, my Mother included and I'm thinking that in order to really move ahead, it would behoove me to seek impartiality rather than family when it comes to my writing.  I had my first rejection and was not that fussed at first.  A week or so later my thoughts on the subject have become insidious in their jibery and pokery - You write too simply.  You are not eloquent.  Look at this writer, be more like that.  Maybe you should gear yourself toward young adult.  I counter with - I think I'm easy to read.  Being eloquent and flowery isn't me and most importantly, I love my work.

Eventually, it's easier to pile other crap on top of those thoughts because let's face it, there's plenty going on.  But sometimes, they poke through like Carrie hands from the ground, reaching, pointing, cramping any sort of creativity.  On a whim, I'll browse jobs that would take me away from writing but they require time and commitment I just don't have.

I have trouble accepting that writing is all I have time for.  I can move an entire house with pets and children and spouse, set up the new one, write a best-selling novel AND go on auditions, right?  No.  I feel like my Dad to myself.  No, Lisa.  You can't do that, you have to do this.  And I am petulant for it.

I am a crazy life-driver, veering left and right without signalling.  Sometimes I make the sharp turn only to find the road is blocked and all I can do is stare forlornly at the goings on over there.  I turn the car around and drag my wheels back to the main road that is meant for me and continue on the Highway of Life; searching, writing, doing, coveting, loving, thinking, wanting, and yet... still feeling content with my lot.

Such a strange meeting of feelings.