An Inconsequential Life

She had an inconsequential life. It was plain, but steady. A simple slice of American life. It was a life they had worked hard to create, her and the man she had married. They had a long shared history filled with love, joys, sorrows and disappointments. She had lovely daughters and darling grandchildren. The last daughter at home was almost 13. After raising children for 30 years, she was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe soon she would be able to climb out of the box. She could imagine unfolding her body, straightening her back and stretching her arms to the sky. Her eyes sparkled. She could feel herself take that very first breath of life, feeling the knowledge of herself brand new. Shame and confusion swiftly washed the vision away. She loved her children. She loved her husband. She loved her life.

Most days she tended to the details of her satisfactory life with grace. Some days her head did not ache. Those days were better than the others. Most days her hip screamed at her in pain. She knew she needed a new one, but had not yet prioritized the matter. She home schooled her daughter with her fingers crossed, hoping that the child was learning what she needed. She counted down the days until she would be able to send her back to school in the fall. She planned dinner and bought the groceries. She tidied the house and made the bed. She never did anything just for herself, even though she always meant to.

The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days the grandchildren came to play. They loved her without judgement or reservation. She heard herself laugh and wondered at the unfamiliarity of the sound. She filled them with cookies and love. They were good at being grandparents, her husband and her. Together, they were good at a lot of things. They had built a good life.

She often picked up her phone, and blankly scrolled through social media. She liked the dog pictures. She liked the cat videos. She liked to see pictures of her friends children and their travels. She did not like the ads. Every so often, it seemed she would see the same one, over and over. Eventually, her finger would tap on "learn more”.

The ads tried to sell her kids books, master classes, and Spanish lessons. Except for one. It was trying to coax her to enter a writing contest. She remembered a teacher in college thirty years ago, suggesting she should be an author. She quickly closed the ad and continued to scroll.

The writing contest ad kept reappearing. Sometimes she tapped on the “learn more” button. Sometimes she scrolled past it. She didn't need to see the ad, because she knew exactly what it said.

She wanted to write a story and enter the contest. Of course, she really didn't have time. She tried to think of a story to write. She tried to imagine characters and a story with an interesting plot. She tried to remember how to write a story. She simply could not.

She thought, who am I to even think I could tell a story that would be good enough to enter a contest? Besides, she truly could not muster up even a first sentence of a story. She had noticed over the years that her imagination didn't seem to be what it used to be. She remembered having a vivid imagination long ago. She wondered if she even had any imagination left. The sudden squeezing, tightness in her chest made her wonder if she were having a heart attack.

When she saw the ad again, she knew the entry deadline for the contest was nearing. It was that day at 11:59 p.m. She looked at the blank page she had been staring at for several days. She knew she couldn't win a writing contest. She had not even been able to think of a story to write. She did not understand why she couldn’t shake it from her mind. It was like a siren of the sea, luring her to an inevitable demise.

She picked up the laptop and took it out to the back patio. Sitting there, looking out at the lake, she could breathe. She breathed in the shimmers from the water. She turned her face upward to feel the warmth of the sun. She felt the wind blow through her hair. She was keenly aware of the throbbing in her head. With her eyes tightly closed, she inhaled all the strength that nature had to give. With a heavy sigh, and a tear or two falling onto the table, she placed her fingers on the keys and wrote a story about someone unexpectedly coming into a large sum of money, involving a mysterious little black book.

Shortly before the contest was ending, she prepared her story for submission. She had not told her husband about this. She had not told her daughters about this. Her hands were cold. Her mouth was dry. The pressure in her chest was back. She sat staring at the submit button.

Why did doing something for herself feel like she was betraying them? How did she ever lose herself in this box of motherhood? Forsaking her own dreams? Her youngest child was not fully raised. Was it too soon to take the lid off the box? She continued to stare at the submit button, feeling a wave of nausea.

Perhaps, she thought, it was cowardice that stopped her from hitting the submit button. After so many years spent immersing herself in her children, she had disappeared. Was she simply too terrified to step out and show herself?

It wasn't about winning a contest, it was about entering a contest. If she tapped that button, it would be like climbing out of the box and almost yelling, "Look at me, world! I am here!" With that thought, she held her breathe and tapped the submit button.

Before she closed the laptop, she searched online for a small black notebook. Finding one, she placed an order. When the notebook arrived, she felt joy, true unabashed joy. She ran her finger over the stitching on the spine, feeling each tiny, perfect stitch. Her hands stroked the cover with reverence before she gently opened the notebook. The blank pages stared up at her, softly whispering, “You are the author of your own story.” Just a few days after that, the email arrived, notifying her that she had won the writing contest and $20,000. She gathered her little black notebook and pen, and settled into her chair on the back patio. She still loved her husband. She still loved her daughters. She still loved her life. She straightened her back, and stretched her arms to the sky. She slowly inhaled a first breathe.