I hate that I get to the point where some remarkable super woman part of me has managed to sort, organize, file, and accomplish, and I'm just rounding the corner on being “ahead,” when then the week catches up with me again.
I hate that on any given day I can never really accomplish even half of what I'd like to.
I know deep down that this moment, right here on this couch, matters. Here, in a circle of light surrounded by the dark of the sleeping house, with my breath and my anxious heart, this is what matters. Here, with my feet tucked up under me and the steady clacking of the keyboard, my fingers fluttering to create words without conscious effort. Here, longing for sleep. This is what matters.
But I get hungry for days where everything feels sorted out and accomplished. Where there is time to come home from work and take a walk outdoors; time to do some yoga, or run; and mostly, time to write. Each day I don't write I feel a terror rising in me. What if I never get this down? What if all I can ever do are fragments? But each day, the demands prioritize, like jostling penguins. I've heard that they'll do this at the edge of an ice burg: push and bump until one or two penguins fall into the icy water below. The rest stand watching—waiting to see if the ones they pushed surface and swim about or are devoured.
I keep picturing some graphic organizer, some chart, something that could synchronize and streamline the crazy that is my day—but even if it were—even if I could remember and coordinate all the things I need to accomplish, it still comes back to this: the hours run out. The clock's hand crawls steadily around the face. Night fills my body with a craving for sleep, and then, too soon, the alarm clicks on.
words: Christina Rosalie, webland (my topograpy)
photo: Dorothee Lang, Germany (blueprint21)