Adventure

"An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered."
-G. K. Chesterton

I've been dwelling on inconveniences a bit lately: the stomach flu that rages through my home . . . a new baby who sleeps in very small measures . . . a winter blizzard in April . . . a body that still has yet to fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes . . . a toddler who cannot and will not show any sign of self-control . . . I could go on and on. But not today.

Being a writer forces me to look at life in story format. This blog is a perfect case-in-point. But one of the greatest sources of frustration for me, is that as of late, my life does not offer the sort of adventure I crave. Almost all the activities, the pleasures, even the vices I once enjoyed are a bit out of reach—simply because my time, my energy, and my creativity are invested elsewhere at the moment . . . and for the next gazillion-moments to come . . . or at least until my children are potty trained, can dress themselves, and manage to scrounge the kitchen on their own for adequate sustenance.

Yet, as I drove home from the grocery store last week, dwelling too heavily on some of this, it struck me quite suddenly how fleeting these days actually are; how brief the inconveniences. Glancing in the backseat at my children, I wondered with a fierce stab of guilt if I was approaching this from the wrong angle. How many times have I heard women around me tell me to slow down and enjoy the time I have with my babies, because it is over so fast? While I have tried to appreciate and follow the words of advice, they generally barely filter through my sleep, food, and strength-deprived consciousness, and so I struggle to grasp their weight.

But looking at these babies of mine today, these tiny people filled with infinite possibility and mystery, I am gripped by the knowledge that these two are the greatest gift I have been given (cliche', I know). Perhaps even more, they are they greatest gift I have to give. They will remain when I cease. Their stories will continue where mine ends. And anything of value I wish to say will be said through them.

So, as Chesterton would assert, however inconvenienced I may or may not feel in these chaotic, exhausting days, I am living in the midst of the most amazing adventure I may ever be allowed to experience. And that's something worth writing about.