Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary...

I once had a plant, a spider plant, and I named him Sunshine. And he died. I was 8. I think I knew then that I didn't have a green thumb, but I have still held onto the belief that some day, in some way, I will have my very own organic vegetable garden. I won't use any pesticides or herbicides and, thus, will save my family from the harmful effects of the chemicals that bathe everything we buy from the store. We will eat from it all summer and our very skin will glow with the health and fortitude of the earth. I will till the soil myself and harvest the fruits of my labor (or, rather, the veggies of my labor, ... oh, AND fruits, because you know that tomatoes are really a fruit. They have seeds.) Anyway, it will be glorious and I will have enough produce to give away to all of our family and friends and they will say things like "This is really fabulous, Laura. You grow the best_______ (insert random vegetable name here.)" And after a few years of this, we will move to the country and start a real sustainable farm (with free range hens and everything) and sell our wares at the farmer's market.

Yeah, right.

Alas, I'm afraid that this dream can be chalked up to fantasy because I highly doubt that I will EVER have enough time to pursue a garden of this variety, even if I did find the courage to undertake it. BUT what about all of my other dreams. Do I have time for any of them? How do I find time to even think about them let alone pursue them? I started a family at a young age, making it harder for me to pursue a career. And now, even though I am working full time, I am making less than I have ever made in my adult life at this job because we have chosen to live in a small town and because I have chosen not to pursue a more stressful career in lieu of having some sanity left to raise my children. So, given the fact that I am working away from home 40 hours out of every week, I am not exactly making a name for myself. And I'm spending a lot of time away from my children, evenings and Saturdays included, which was never my plan when I set about conceiving and birthing these kids.

But here's the thing... if I have to work, and I'm pretty sure that I do... my husband is a teacher... I love being at the library while I'm working. And when I dissect that--to further examine my issues, it gets broken down into the following parts:
a) I love books because
b) I love to read them and
c) I love words and how they get put together in different ways which is
d) Why I majored in language, albeit foreign, and
e) My favorite course in college was Hispanic Short Story because
f) I love to read and
g) I love to write

AH! There it is... I love to write. And I want to write more than I'll ever want to garden. That's the thing. At this job, I do get to write a little bit. I get to write a monthly library newsletter. Ok, so only 12 people read it, but I still get to write it as part of my job. And, recently, since we are bossless, I have been put in charge of writing the monthly library newspaper column in the illustrious Mattoon Journal-Gazette. Hey, it's not the Trib, but it's my words finally out there for other people besides those who are emailed a link to my blog... not that there's anything wrong with that.... :) Oh, and it's boring drivel about the library, blah blah this and blah blah that, but still. It's there. In the newspaper. And they'll likely take it away from me when we get our Important New Director who will, no doubt, have much more important things to say given that she/he will have a master's degree in library science and that makes you immediately more newsworthy than I could possibly be.

On the other hand, lots of people have commented on my articles. So, huh. And it does feel good to get words on paper, regardless of what they are saying ("Libraries in Illinois are funded by property taxes..."). It makes me want to get out the 1/2 of a novel and the 1/2 of a YA novel that I should finish. But, there's the rub. The writing for the paper or for the library is stuff that I can do at work. And it's stuff that I'm not emotionally invested in. My other writing is the kind of thing that I need to have uninterrupted time for. I can't be sitting here all engrossed in it and then have to answer the phone at work AGAIN just to tell someone that we're open 9-8 Monday through Friday and 9-5 on Saturday. It's the kind of writing that just pours out of me, that has a life of its own, characters that are literally alive inside of me--dormant--waiting to be let out. That kind of writing does not stop for Jim Bob Jones' printing problems on the patron computers or to help Cody's Meemaw find him just the right early readers (although I do typically enjoy helping with that particular task.)

I don't know that many of my dreams will ever be unearthed, organic or not. I'm not even sure I know what most of them are. (Hiking through Europe? Running a mission in Central America? Running for Congress on a platform of ending sweatshop labor?) But I know what a few of them are. And I know that if I don't pursue them that one day I'll be old and even achier than I am now and I'll be mad at myself for not trying harder.

Which leads me to my final thought: I've been in this place before. That place where I'm convicted to work on my goals and dreams and not let them fall by the wayside. And then Real Life kidnaps me and holds me for ransom. The payment? A son with a broken collarbone, a daughter who needs fillings and glasses and who has emotional needs beyond what I have the patience and energy for most days, the alarm clock going off way too soon, and piles of Spiderman underwear that need washing. I pay the ransom and then it's too late to follow the dreams and meet the goals, they're sitting at the coffee shop waiting for me but I never show, which is rude. So, the unanswered question is how to pay Real Life and somehow trick her into giving me more time and energy back.

I'm going to ponder this (again... still...) while I help Swastika-Lizard Tattoo Face Guy print his latest tattoo design from an email on the patron computers.