It takes 30 seconds. Reblog it.
help find this missing girl
How is it that I have gotten to age 36 -almost 37- without having a clue as to what to do to earn a living? I want it to be something I enjoy doing, since I will be doing it 8 or 9 hours a day, 5 or more days a week. And I want it to be something I can get paid well to do, and something I am good at. That leaves vast, unmarked territories of possibility to explore. And there is some urgency-I need a job now. How to differentiate between a job and a vocation? Ideally, there would be no disconnect between the two. I have done a lot of things, mostly but just taking whatever came along, but I am tired of that. It is not satisfying. It’s like eating a dinner of grilled cheese and soup when what you really want is a huge salad and baked sweet potato; it will fill you up, but that’s all it will do.
So much of this dilemma hinges on the fact that my daughter, who has been the driving force of everything I do from the moment she was conceived, is nearly an adult. A year and a half from now, she will be all grown up. Without her presence and her need of me, I am lost as to what my dreams are at all. Being the INFP personality that I am, I want my presence in the world to have made an impact, to have left this place better than I found it. But I am lost. And these woods are alternately scary, beautiful, exciting, and even menacing, but I am not even very sure I want to leave them.
Not sure why this painting gets to me so much, but I nearly cried when I saw it.
As found on my daughter’s Facebook:
B: where’d you find that?
J: it was on my mom’s fb
B: lol i love your mom
J: me, too
B: well, we all know how much you love your mom
**melt** :)
tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?
Most of my early memories seem to start around the same time- about age 3 or 4-and involve a particular house we lived in. I have a lot of memories of that place and time. I remember cool sheets on my mom’s bed at naptime, “helping” my dad build a playhouse for me, riding in the truck with my parents to get a dog house for my new puppy, Zeke, and being confined to bed with the measles.
I think my favorite memory, though, is of lying in my bed with my Raggedy Ann doll, daydreaming and making up stories for her, watching the way the light came in my window in what seemed at times to be solid beams that I could cut into chunks and take with me to cheer me up whenever I needed it. I have a distinct memory of being happy, content, and blissfully innocent.
Here I am, late at night, romancing the feeling of loneliness and being lost that has become so familiar, like the drink you don’t want, but can’t put down. Still feeling, at almost 37, like I don’t know where I’m going, or even where I want to go. One thing I have in my favor: the most amazing husband and daughter. So, that part of my life is fantastic. Everything else-what I’m doing here, how I can make this a better world for my having lived in it, how to find some fulfillment in hobbies or occupation, how to use what used to be a formidable brain to the best interest of all-that is so shrouded in mystery, it might as well not exist over that next hill.
