Playing Solitaire

Do you ever wonder if the universe is out to get you? You know that feeling, just when you think things may be going your way, then SLAM, you run smack, full speed into an invisible but thick wall of pain?
It's in my heart's desires that I wonder this the most. When I find myself really wanting something, craving it emotionally, soulfully. Thinking my heart is pulling me in a very specific direction for some predestined reason.
Like the feeling that I was meant to live by the sea. I feel like something within me actually calls for salt water washing up on my toes. I feel a sacred longing. (I love that word, longing.) But I have to confess that part of me is afraid to get my wish. My fear is that I've wanted this for so long now that maybe when I genuinely have it, it won't feel as good as the life-long longing led me to believe it would. Am I making any sense? Please don't answer that question.
It's like that saying "Be careful what you wish for...." The implication being that we aren't smart enough to know what we should be reaching for.
I find myself pining for solitude. I want to be alone. I want to come home to an empty house (by the sea). I want to sit in my favorite spot and not have to ask someone to move their homework assignment and empty Pringle's canister first. I want to sit for hours in warm lavender bathwater reading my most recent favorite book and leave the door wide open so I can hear Vivaldi playing softly from the other room. I want to leave my best fountain pen out on my desk and know it will be there when I get back to my story tomorrow. I want to write when the spirit moves me and not have to drop everything because someone has to have 'this shirt washed right now' so it will be dry by tomorrow or we risk such dire consequences that global warming starts looking good. I want to have to deal only with my own unfortunate habits and no one else's. (My own being more than I can handle already.)

I have a full-time sixteen year old daughter and a part-time twenty year old son, so I understand that I need to take care of my parenting privileges first and do things in this area, in the proper order, but my soul cries today for solitude someday.
My fear is that the universe is messing me. "You may think this is what you want, but just wait until you get your wish. Then you'll be crying for company, companionship." In other words, 'be careful what you wish for.' Am I going to get my way and then see that the grass in greener on the other side, where there are people to talk to and watch old movies with? I've thought long and hard about this possibility and I don't think so. I do not believe I'll feel lonely. I hope not. Why would my heart yearn for this if there weren't some form of destiny involved?
I'm telling you right now, that if I bust my ass achieving this dream and then . . . . . . . . well, let's just say I'll be so pissed.

Of course, I do not wish for my loved ones to be gone. I am just eager for the day when they are living on their own, happily and peacefully, enjoying their own privacy and space. And cleaning up their own petrified toothpaste globs in the bathroom sink.

Mean Time

I haven't written here for a while and I am not loving this fact. It feels like a failure in some light shades of gray. Why the lapse? I'm waiting for inspiration.

I love to write. I have some fiction, some non-fiction, some light stuff and some dark stuff. I enjoy many forms.
What I am not crazy about is the act of rambling in the form of writing. And you may now be asking yourself "Well, then what the hell is this I'm reading, if not rambling?" And to that I say, "Shut up and go read your Cheerios box instead." No wait, don't leave. Come back. Sorry.
Anyway. . . . . not wanting to compromise my 'new' Web log with words for the sake of quantity, I waited. And I waited. And nothing came to me. Well, this is not exactly true, because I've written everyday for a couple of weeks, but for a number of very good reasons, these pieces are not fit for this forum. "Pieces of what?" might be a valid question. They vary in their unsuitability. Some are far too ordinary (you can thank me later), some are far too personal and revealing (I'll be thanking myself later) and the rest are still in various stages of development (we'll see who thanks who eventually).
Inspiration is a tricky thing, at least for me. In writing, there is nothing better than a really powerful, overwhelming surge of inspiration. I swear it's better than sex, or at least most sex. That wonderfully gratifying experience of your fingers not being able to ke ee p up wth teh flow of truley inspitired thought. Just a visual aid there. You're thinking about your Cheerios box right now, aren't you?
Unfortunately, inspiration is elusive. It can be encouraged and, in my experience, it can sometimes be prolonged, if I'm careful and gentle. I've seen inspiration beget inspiration. When it does show up, I hang on tight, because who knows when it will visit me again. It can't be counted on. It can't be scheduled or foreseen. So, without the ability to create inspiration on command, what should I do while I'm waiting? In the mean time?
Do you believe that writing, or any creative expression for that matter, that is not born of inspiration can still be moving, meaningful, special? Is it wise to simply plow through the motions of one's passion without the strongest of motivations? With out 'that' feeling? I'm counting on the answer being "YES!"
Someone (of whom I now have only the utmost regard and respect for) recently said to me, the eleven magic words every girl longs to hear. "Maybe you need to quit your job and write full time." Well, every girl writer longs to hear. These words would probably be lost on a girl motorcycle mechanic. Her eleven magic words would probably be "Maybe you need to quit your job and ride full time."
Do me a favor and the next time you see me, say "Write. Just write. Write when you're inspired; write when you're not. Just write and stop thinking about it so much. Geez!"