And the lid goes back on the box once more,
As I dress the kids to get them out the door,
I swallow down my dreams and my ideas,
My visions, my passions and even my fears.
Time, time, where is the time?
To claim, to pursue, to hunt down what is mine?
Where is the freedom to sing my own song?
That’s been bubbling inside of me all along.
Waiting, waiting to be sung,
While I cook, and fold, and make cookies,
That’s “fun”?!
These little people need to be fed,
They need to be loved,
And put to bed.
They need to be seen and need to belong,
But in this whole process,
Where is MY song?
I have come to discover,
Our song must be sung,
But that the form it is sung in,
There’s much more than one.
The notes can be woven in the way that we talk,
The tune can be heard in the way that we walk.
And so, it’s damn balance,
As all good things are,
And if we walk on this tightrope,
We’re bound to go far.
And we might first fall one way,
And then to the other,
And sometimes we wonder,
Why do I bother?
We bother because we have a song to be sung,
And the world, it is waiting,
And we’re just the one.