the morning in numbers
...and countless pesky tasks pushed back into the corner of my mind where they belong, forced to wait patiently until I can address them with the time they deserve.
How much of this existence is the managing of time? And time is such an illusion, a way to mark the turning of the planet. It's panic upon our day is nothing short of self-inflicted. There is the negotiating with self for the permission to relax and the motivation to work. If there is too much to do and not enough time to do it, then you have too much to do...as in those tasks do not belong in your hands or mind today. And so we must open our grabby little hands, those hands of hubris that demand we show people that we are more than we truly are, those hands must release time and tasks and duty and ideals.
How much of this existence is release of control? And control is such an illusion, simple decision-making. The panic upon this loss of control is nothing short of self-inflicted. Even the comforts of control I can give myself are not true control. The attempt to control items, people, outcomes, and situations were long-since established coping mechanisms for managing anxiety..that continued pit of knots in my soul's stomach that won't release unless I can somehow protect them from bad things. Only this does not work anymore. So what does one do when a once-working coping mechanism no longer performs its designated task?
How much of this existence is tasks? The living gets lost in the doing. We do, but we cannot see. We change diapers and forget to look into eyes. We make love and forget to connect. We pay bills and forget to see money for what it is instead of the power it has over our choices. We attend holiday parties but forget to celebrate the magic of the season. We read life-changing words but forget to let them penetrate our insides toward real progress. We bicker over holiday plans, plans intended to foster a connection with friends and family, but we forget to have generosity of spirit. We purchase gifts for these people, often without deeply considering them. We do and do and do.
Life is like a poem. The doing and going are the words, even beautiful in-and-of themselves. The living and being is the meaning behind those words. I guess today I am wanting to take shelter in-between the lines, to linger in the subjective meaning that only I can interpret for myself. I suppose this is the art of living.