She looked out her bedroom window, tea in hand, and watched as the cardinals ate red berries off the Holly bush and the crows pecked at a mysterious looking mass on the gravel path. “Oh to have that kind of freedom,” she lamented. Living a privileged life, always warm in the winter months, well-fed with seasonable fruits and vegetables, and a well-appointed wardrobe in a clean, organized, carpeted closet, she barely realized that the gods were quite good to her, who, upon her birth, bestowed her with a golden ticket to the good life.
An active social calendar, that in truth she could have lived without, gave her the misconception of importance. She thought she was a free woman able to schedule and attend the best parties in the city. But sometimes she questioned her freedom. In time, she realized that her only real freedom had been those moments when she went inward, deep in thought, deep into her daydreams, and deep into her creative life. Here she had the freedom to be anyone she wanted to be. She had the freedom to express herself through her creativity, most of which she hid from the world lest her true way of being be exposed.
So, it was in this place of introspection she decided to live. Initially unsure of herself, she was convinced she was going mad. What would they think when they see her in a paint-stained apron at the market or when she turned down invitations to lunch because she needed the space and silence necessary to complete her latest poem?
Her desire to live a creative life finally became so overwhelming that she had no choice but to let herself sink deep into its folds. She spent hours which turned into days and then weeks without seeing anyone yet content in her creative pursuits in a trance of fulfillment and joy. “How fortunate I am,” she thought, “to have found my life’s purpose while there’s still time. This is what freedom feels like.”