You know how it is: that brief feeling of a movement, a quiver of a heartbeat, an unexplained prickling on your scalp, a need to blink….. and a shrug. I’m restless, but not really. I want to go, but I’m comfy. I want to create, but I’m stifled. I want to write, but I can’t stop reading. I want, I want, I want, but I don’t want because I’m satisfied.
It’s probably because I’m relegated to being a hanger-on these days. I don’t have a schedule anymore, I don’t have meetings or appointments or deadlines or rehearsals or agendas, I just….. move through the days. And while this may sound like some people’s worst nightmare (“How can you stay home all day? I’d kill myself!”) it is pretty satisfying to me most of the time. I absolutely love my house and I love looking out the window at all that nature out there (and today there was more fluffy white nature but tomorrow is going to be nearly sixty degrees and I think Mother Nature may have been nipping at the mead) and knitting to my heart’s content. I float around everyone else’s schedule so I know who will be home to eat the dinner I’ve cooked, who won’t be around so I can add the ingredients I want without encountering the scrunched-up nose, when we might go on vacation, when to look for a package that someone’s expecting, when to take Nellie for a walk…. I’m floating in and out of somebody else’s story, it seems. And that makes me itchy.
But I don’t think I’m itchy enough yet. I’m still knitting, and drawing, and reading, and bingeing on Netflix, getting my environment organized the way I like it, and pretty content. There isn’t anything much I want to change right now, except…
I really want to find out where that itch is coming from.