I had a job, and I had it for a while. I was given a van to use. It was my job to drive this van around and take care of the situations at these far locations.

I drove that van for more 10,000 miles before it dawned on me that I might want to set the radio presets where I wanted.

I heard someone talking about how they loved the hymn “This is my father’s world.”

That’s a good one. And I’m not really into hymns, but that’s a good one.

My reaction when I heard her say how she loved it was “It’s not my father’s world. It’s MINE.”

I remembered the van. That only I drove. And how I didn’t feel like I had the rights to it.

If this is my father’s world, I have SOME rights to it. But I better not mess it up. I better not mess up.

My daughter broke one of my teacups when I was moving their case. She didn’t mean to.
It was precious to me, and when it broke I had to be careful not to be angry at her. She burst into tears.

Much later, when required to write an essay for mother’s day, she wrote that she knew I loved her more than a very beautiful cup.

It’s tenuous. She know there are things she should do and things she should not do.

Because it’s my house.

Once it a while, she gets to be in HER space. In her world.

On my vacation I was able to lay down other people’s expectations of me. I got to inhabit my own life more fully. I was very busy, and often tired, because I required of myself that I march (and make my daughter march) through the volcano basins, and see the sights.

I liked the freedom. I liked the space of pleasing myself.

I wondered about the difference—the difference between my regular life and vacation.

I have heard that I should follow my bliss. That the desires encoded in my heart are God’s message.

That I have permission. It is baked into my existence.

I don’t have to squeeze myself into a tiny space to leave room for other people.

This is my world. All nature sings to my listening ears.

I am going to go stretch my legs.