Tuesday, November 29, 2011
I sit at my kitchen table, watching the golden leaves dance, tossing and turning until they hit the ground. The fall winds strip the trees bare, prepare for winter's arrival.
It accepts, doesn't resist, knows how to be ready.
I sit and observe. See if I can learn something. How to prepare: for seasons, change, the days to come. What do I strip myself of? What must I do to survive - thrive - through the inevitable? Seasons come, go, change, ready or not.
I am not
I stare out the window. Voices drown out my thoughts. I strain to hear, sift through the noise, listen.
It'll be okay. One thing at a time. Just focus on what needs to be done. To be done. My list. Where is my list? I have more things to add. Let me just write these things down and then I'll stop. Wait? No, not yet. If only I had more time. Then... then I would rest. Or maybe write. It wouldn't be wrong, would it? Not if I were writing about resting, being still. Too many things racing through my mind, my heart. Passions to pursue, challenges to meet, calls to make, girls to tuck in. The girls. I have to remember to make that doctor's appointment. And she needs new shoes. Her toes just won't squeeze in anymore. She's growing so quickly. And gloves. She needs gloves. Because the cold is coming, seasons changing. I'm not ready. Too much to do. To do. I forgot to do my exercises. Again. Not enough time. My body aches. From the inside out, bone chilling ache. But I don't want to take this medicine anymore. Shooting myself to slow this disease down, only to speed up another. Enough. Not enough. Time. I should start dinner. It's getting late. Too late.
She breaks my silence, my noisy attempt to quiet myself.
I lift her out of her crib, draw open the curtains. She points. Watches the leaves dance outside her window. She laughs, excited, like the show is just for her.
I squeeze her. Because it is - just for her, just for us. This moment. That's all I've got, all I'm sure of.
This is life. These are the moments. Now is my season.
So I smile, laugh, spin her around and watch the dimples form as she throws her head back and giggles.
I am stilled.
Posted by Thrive Out Loud at 9:45 PM