If I wash my hair today, tomorrow I could schedule in some combing.
Not to glorify busy, if messy hair is a glorification. I forget. It could be fashionable, if that word still exists.
Anyway, here I am babbling: poor time management; though most things seem to be getting done; the big picture is a body of water - me and my task list are bouncing over it, skimmed stones – I'm not at all sure if I know what I’m doing but I’m doing it.
There’s a destination which we may or may not reach.
Even rest time is skittish: yet this fear is relished – if only all fear were like this!
Even rest time is skittish: yet this fear is relished – if only all fear were like this!
Doubt is less popular. The work ahead is a weight I haven’t fully figured how to shoulder. Did I ever figure out any previous burdens?
Luckily, no! An encouraging precedent!
When I am standing on the shore, a real shore, and the air is gathering chill and the water is silky-dark, I doubt my ability to get in and swim. But then I am swimming. Gulls wheel and cry, yacht ropes clank. I’m a giant in a bladder-wrack forest. Perfect twists of wood drift by. The sky can be anything – bursting golds, dissolving greys, lashing rain - it cannot be wrong.
Later again I am curled in blankets, brimming with symptoms, reminding myself that plenty of folk have this same virus without braving the swim: busy without the bounce.
Comments
Glorifying busy - I suppose I do that. Don't mean to but I suppose I do. Hmm.