I was born into a large Southern family, fueled with cheese grits and dramatic stories of adventure and love: A great grandfather who ran white lightning, a grandmother who put passion before all else and a cousin with a proven strong right hook.

I have been feeling my own restlessness welling up lately.

I posted on Facebook a question, “Chrissy Clary is ready for a new adventure. Any suggestions?” After a quiet summer day watching the hummingbirds fly, and wondering if I should follow their lead, I was looking to the masses for help. But it was a small voice that grounded me.

He is a bossy 4-year-old who encourages my stability. Almost as if he can tell when I need it most, he quiets my longing with simple requests for time and attention.

We bond over Lincoln Logs and Legos. He inspires my creativity as he encourages me to paint for him. He touches my restless spirit and, unbeknownst to him, quiets it.

Looking into his big blue eyes I am reminded that all I need I have close by, that no longer do I need to succumb to the genetic predisposition causing me to constantly search.

I can leave the high-stake drama and adventure to the others, and I can derive joy from a new type of adventure, one driven more by teaching and learning and less by reckless escapism.