Soul Stories: Someone's Playing the Piano

Someone’s playing the piano

ON the eve of my birthday, I wanted to reminisce about how this life could possibly have spanned 50 years already.  My memories of constantly working to make ends meet either monetarily or emotionally feels insatiable.  And relentless.  I look up and I see the leisure of others taking place all around me and I wonder: when is it my turn?  Because even the ‘down’ times of my life when there was no literal workplace to go to, I was working.  Scrounging for the morsels to cobble together so that there was always just enough.  Literally. Just enough,

But something opened up in my life recently. It began at the end of last year really.  Something about turning 50 awakened me.  Slowly.  It was like a march to 50.  I planned to go on this amazing trip.  And began to make payments towards it.  Then something happened.  With our finances of course.  And I had to course correct.  But the march continued toward the goal.  And then another unexpected twist.  A car accident.  And something began to bubble to the surface.  Anger. Rage.  Enough. Fuck you. This constant scrambling to the shore collecting shells of joy from the ridiculous remnants of mishaps, disappointments, broken expectations.  Fuck that.  I am going to rent a cabin.  Father’s Day.  Yep that is the perfect excuse for renting a cabin.  Looks like its about him.  Really its about me.  And I sat in that cabin and I read. And I wrote.  And I drank coffee.  And I created.  Luxuriously.  And now I am hooked. 
My birthday is the following weekend.  We rent a cabin for the weekend.  The military did not pay. Again.  It is going on 8 weeks.  Waiting on three weeks’ worth of pay.  Fuck that.  It costs so much? So, fucking what? 50 years of life.  I am going to a mother fucking cabin.

And here I am.  Hooked. On ME.  On who God is making me.  On what I have become.  ON early sunlight. and fresh air.  And wind.  And tress rustling.  And coffee.  And reading.  And writing.  And ME.