Monday, May 17, 2010
When I Grow Up
When I was 18, I wanted to be a rider, an artist, an environmental scientist. I declared myself a pre-art major.
When I was 19, I wanted to be a rider, a kayaker, and an anthropologist. I took science classes.
When I was 20, I wanted to be a rider, an animal rights activist, and a magazine writer. I studied journalism, got pregnant, and sold my horse. I looked down my nose at ovolactovegetarians.
When I was 24 I turned down a full scholarship to a great law school. I got married. I had a second child. I moved home to Whidbey. I bought a horse.
I've been trying ever since to decide what I want to be when I grow up, and it hasn't been easy. I have swung from seeing my life as a serious of missed opportunities and false starts to seeing it as a trajectory towards happiness . . . a meandering path to exactly where I wanted to be all along.
I'm still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. I'm 30 years old—turning 31 in a couple of weeks—and I am not sure if I should study nursing. Not sure if I need to. Not sure if I can afford to. Not sure if I can afford not to. Not sure if I can ever make writing pay, and not sure if I'm closing a door by thinking so.
But what I am sure of is this: I love writing, riding, drawing, singing. I love animals. I want to be a rider and a mother. I want a little farm, a trusted mount (a 14.1 hand brown mule, please), a trio of children, a handsome and athletic husband (to kiss and everything), a pair of cats, a trusted dog. A bunny, a garden, and a tame, vegetarian herd of dairy goats. Not sure about that falcon anymore, but then people change as they grow.
(Photos above: riding Sophie at age 8ish; doing homework with Echo Bunny at age 9ish.
Photos below: riding Fenway at age 30, holding Harriet at age 30.)