Some evenings you find yourself, long past bedtime, standing with a toddler in your arms. The teething is fierce with this one, and you hold her against your shoulder and sway while she chews at the shoulder of your shirt.
You are near the bed, near enough to reach it, but you know that sitting down will disturb the equilibrium you have swayed into existence, so even though your arms are turning to toothpicks made of jelly, you sway. You shush. You become slowly more damp, a human swamp of tears (hers) and saliva (hers) and sweat (yours).
And you realize that tonight, perhaps for a few nights, you can choose to live with purpose, or to write about purpose, but you cannot do both.
Sometimes purpose is not the same as predictable. Sometimes purpose does not mean that you hit every mark, meet every deadline, score every goal.
Purpose means living the way you intend to. It means living your values. In my house, purpose is going to make space for toddlers and teething, even if that means every other thing is put on hold a little while.
So here you are. Here I am. Swaying. As purposefully as possible. For a little while longer.
