I want to be good, I do.

I want to be patient, eat steamed greens and take daily contemplative walks in the woods.

I want to work hard with drive and purpose and strict focus.

I want to wake early, boil the kettle and brew a pot of rooi bos tea, then quietly scribble my thoughts into my chunky pink journal and start the day with clear mind.

I want to see my husband with fresh eyes of love and appreciation, fondness and respect, for the kind, patient and accepting human that he is.

I want to have abs, biceps and shapely glutes, not for appearances (weeell….) but to feel strong and capable and fiercely independent.

I want to live in a cozy cottage with a spacious garden and a dog and a cat and a veggie patch and a digging area for my little boy.

I want the time to be there for my beautiful children but also to work hard and provide for them.

I want to sit in stillness and feel my heart beat steadily, breathe gently into this magnificent body and steep myself in the peace of mind that my soul craves daily.

I want to be good.

Instead…

I eat milk chocolate and cheese toasties for dinner.

I scroll mindlessly on a tiny screen that sucks my energy away from what matters.

I lament my lack of physical strength and prowess as I settle down in front of Netflix for the night… yet again.

I sleep in each morning, unable to resist the warmth and comfort of my bed, then eventually get up with a feeling of regret for wasting precious time.

I nag and pester my long-suffering husband. A lot.

I live in my parents’ home, the same home I grew up in, next to a road that gets busier each year, with an unruly garden and a feeling of it not really actually being our home. (It isn’t, after all…)

I live this way because…

I’m a bit stuck.

I can’t seem to find my way these days.

I’m trying, even if it sounds like I’m not.

(I usually think I’m not.)

I want to be happy. To have simple pleasures. To find my purpose.

Perhaps one day I’ll write a poem about living these things.

Perhaps… one day… I’ll be good.