I’ve just realized that I am a hyphenate. I don’t have merely one passion. I am myriad.
You hear about these women. Mostly on blogs. You know that behind the camera has to be chaos. Somewhere there must be chaos, because no one can do it all and have a clean house.
My insatiable curiosity and verve for life make me a perfect candidate. They also make me susceptible to nervous breakdowns.
I am first, and foremost, a mother. Without a doubt. No passion can top that.
I’m also a wife. This usurped daughter and sister a long time ago. I take this role seriously. It’s not convenient. It’s not a fancy.
Then. Well, then. Writer? Author? Storyteller? What do I name my calling? These seem empty somehow. My soul is wrapped in this cloak. I catalog my life in stories. I am a creator.
That machine feeds into another. Designer of jewelry. I went to fashion school. I love everything about ornamentation. Baubles call with their detail. Their personality.
Always on the horizon, informing everything, is the last one. It seems wrong that it would be last, but I think it’s only because it lies dormant until those glorious, pulse-quickening moments. The moments I long for, wait for, with fervent excitement.
I am a traveller. Wanderlust is the thread in my cloak, woven through every facet of me. When I can, I leave. Go to cities, other lands. Even in my own country. Just to be elsewhere. Just to be in the new.
Just because I manage all this, does it make me one of those annoying Instagram wonders? Not at all. I don’t have time to post on Instagram. I don’t have time to do my hair in the morning. I certainly don’t have time (or space) to make my home photo-session worthy.
Don’t worry. I’m still human.