Jam

I work.  I write about work.  I love it more than I ever thought I could.

But something is missing again.  Not anything major like the fiasco of my life two years ago, but a void exists and I can feel it.

Physically, I'm great.  Active, happy, high energy, motivated.  Good stuff.
Emotionally, completely supported.  Dave is amazing.  Friends and family are amazing.  I lack for nothing.
Intellectually, space is not limited, but it's filling up fast.  I feel like a sponge.  No topic is off limits.

Spiritually, well, there's something missing.

I lean on the rock of my faith every day.  I feel guided and loved and confident that I'm doing what God put me on this Earth to do.  I contribute good and love into the world.  So how is that not enough?

Good question.  Let me answer it.

A couple of weeks ago Alexandria and I took a trip to a U-pick farm.  It was amazing and delicious, and I felt in-touch with the homesteader lurking in the shadows of my soul.  She liked coming out.  We picked pounds of blackberries.  I mean pounds.  I got it in my head that we were going to make blackberry jam.

The next day I lit the stove and didn't stop until I'd preserved, jammed, and packed 6 jars of blackberry vanilla jam, 6 jars of strawberry jam, and 3 jars of carrots (why not?).  It felt so good!  I loved working within a method, quietly working through a clear set of directions in order to accomplish a tangible goal.  And I looked at my beautiful finished products and thought, "Man, that was a lot of work for 12 jars of jam."  And it was.  I spent hours in the kitchen working methodically to cook, clean, sterilize, and process these beautiful jars. 

But I wasn't satisified.  I wanted to do it more.  I wanted people.  I wanted women in the same room with me chatting and laughing and telling stories as they pitted, pulled, snapped, and peeled.  I realized that I wanted to be in a different place in a different time. 

Mostly, I wanted it to be necessary.

Time with my friends fills my soul.  I feel alive and less alone.  I see reminders that I'm not the only one struggling, or thriving.  In this age of computers and grocery stores and store-bought blankets, where do women go to fill that void?  How can we have those long, necessary, fruitful conversations more than randomly if we're not forced by necessity or even desire?  I love the idea that the community would come together to preserve the harvest or sew a quilt. 

How do we do that again?  How do we fill this void in a way that is relevant to the 21st century?  I know other women feel this.  We talk about it.  We need it.  But somehow the pressures or social norms or whatever with daily life seem to bind us to a clock or calendar.  How satisfied are we?  How happy are our kids?  How filled are our lives?  What are we doing?

Or maybe it is just me.  Sigh.  Maybe it's just that I'm reading My Antonia and am nostalgic for another era.  Maybe I was supposed to be born in 1850...