Things That Make My Heart Sing

Some things in life are just right. Like my children and friendships and family, our pets; notebooks and really nice pens; books, leaves, sea glass and interesting sticks; a library, a fireplace, window seats and lots of light; long curtains, the smell of spices and shelves with interesting things on them; boxes and tins; a warm kitchen, comfy sofa and many, many blankets.

I dream of having a life-size replica skeleton of a T-Rex in a house with room to accommodate it where I can admire it frequently throughout the day (and yes, I know where to order them from too). That and a collection of replica pre-hominid and dinosaur skulls and fossils. My dream home will be amazing with its garden filled with fruit bushes, vegetables, flowers, trees, and the collection of chickens, alpacas, cats, dogs, the odd goat, cows, and maybe some geese that I intend to have one day.

I feel no need to explain any of it, to myself, or anyone else. These are things that make my heart sing. They appeal to me on a level that I cannot even begin to explain. So I don't even try to, what's the point? They require no explanation or justification, they are things that have their own bundle of joy attached to them, they are mine. I like them and if anyone don't, well, it doesn't really matter, does it? They make sense to me.

But there are things in life that I do question and over-analyse. Like work, writing and relationships. They're a minefield of confusion. Every step I take takes me further into trying to figure out the seemingly neverending list of questions... Why do I like this? Should I like this? What does it say about me? What's wrong with me for wanting, for liking this? How do they feel? Are they like this about me? What if I don't make sense to them? Can I do this? Is it right? Is it ok to want this? What's going to happen? Will I be ok? What if I'm not ok? What’s going on and why can’t I figure it out?

This need to know and to understand can be overwhelming and it really sucks all of the fun out of things.

These questions send me into confusion and I have a tendency to go running back to safety, to what I know, even though that’s the place where I want to escape from, My confort zone that has become uncomfortable and stale.

I get it. I can see the insecurity and anxiety driving it all, it's clear, but knowing what's going on isn't the same as stopping it.

Then I remember the notebooks as I start a new one, I'm already writing in another 2 or 3, maybe 4 even. I look for a pen and make a mental note to buy more that write smoothly and evenly. A friend tells me about a place that sells prehistoric artifacts and I lose myself in it for an hour while excitedly discovering that I can get an Australopithecus replica skull for £270. Bargain. I walk next to the sea and I smile as I hear her whispering to me, tempting me into her depths. I walk along the track and among the trees and I breathe in the warmth, the scent of the flowers and the green as nature pulls me back down to the earth, away from the wonderings of my mind.

Then I see it, the questions... they pull me away from what I want, from what makes sense in an inexplicable way.

The questions... a function of a mind that's trying to make sense of a territory that hasn't explored before, wanting to keep me safe, wanting to know what's ahead before I set foot out, into the unknown.

I don’t need to understand, I just need to follow what makes sense in the moment.

It's the questions that don't make sense, not me.