Occasionally, typically about once a month, I wake up feeling profoundly dissatisfied with life. I feel agitated and frustrated and restrained by living in the city and working in an office.
Traffic. Neighbours. Noise.
I crave a country existence. Wide open spaces where we could keep a few animals. A big verandah and a creek and a nearby town hall.
Generally, after a day or two, the longing again fades to more of a distant pang. I get on with life, focus on the wonderful things about living where we do. Friends and family nearby.
It's a luxury, I suppose, this longing. In a time when the global economy continues to convulse and jitter and billions of people around the world would, literally, give a limb to have what we have, it seems selfish and ungrateful to want something different.
To consider something beyond options for employment and a lovely home when you have a young child. It's just silly, surely.
And yet, here it is again. Back to taunt me.
I went to a garage sale on Sunday at a small house near ours. The middle aged man I spoke to said his elderly parents had just gone into a nursing home and he was selling off all their possessions.
It got me to thinking. If that's me one day, shuffling off into a nursing home after a life lived raising kids in the 'burbs, will I be happy with what I've done? Will it be enough?
Or will I be profoundly and irreversibly disappointed with myself for not listening to this voice playing in the background, telling me that wanting a different life is not a crime and that maybe, just maybe, now is the time to go after it?