Hole in my Bucket

Do you remember the song “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”? I remember singing it when I was a kid: “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza. There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole”. Liza, always the common sensical woman (and no, this isn’t any sort of jab at men), answers, “Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it”. As I become reacquainted with myself again, the only major problem I have come across to this point is that it feels like a part of me may actually be missing. Like poor Henry, I have a hole in my bucket.

So now what? Here I am on this expedition to “find myself” (I think that sounds so trite. I need a fresh phrase), and in doing so, have discovered that somewhere down the road, I have misplaced part of me. Nevertheless, I am left with a gaping hole where “something” used to be. And this isn’t just a little dimple, this is a yawning chasm. I now find myself wondering, like Henry, “With what shall I fix it?”.

To have realized that something is missing in my life, in me, makes me feel unbelievably guilty. How can I, as a wife and a mother, not have found complete fulfillment in exactly that? In needing/wanting more, does my selfishness know no bounds? What do I need/want? And there it is…the big question.

Boy, could I use a Liza right now.

L-