Life is full.

My husband and I are shopping for a house of our own. I scour the listings with hope. I pinpoint my desires in a new home, respect my husband’s, practice patience and trust that something will come up that meets them all.

We’re planning a trip to Paris and London. It’s our first time overseas, my first time on a plane in 10 years. I sink into travel books, laugh at my less-than-stellar passport photos, look for a good, stylish pair of walking shoes.

My part-time office work is busy. I plan, I facilitate, I try to follow along.

I continue my movement toward meaningful work. I update this space, I connect through writing, reach out through social media. I take new courses and work on creating some of my own.

I write my morning pages most days of the week. I go to bed early, eat broccoli, oranges, and ponder other methods of self-care.

I paint, I read, I revel in the new light of spring. I savour documentaries, I escape in mindless TV.

I look forward to celebrating a milestone birthday.

I vacillate from craving structure and taking action, to welcoming the intuitive and letting things unfold.

On some days I feel buoyed. On others I feel burnt out.

Yes, it’s been a full few months. But when I consider the opposite - the days, years ago, when I had no hobbies, no interests or no real ambition - I sit in gratitude.

I contemplate the opportunities that lie in front of me, the curiosity that fuels forward movement, and the choices that are mine to make.

And then I rest. And I silently give thanks for the fullness that is.