I sat on the porch for just a few minutes, sun streaming through trees straining to bud so early, so early in spring. I could barely sit still for five minutes.
I had already stormed in my head and heart at 2:25 p.m. I stormed loudly making Jill endure me, because I was slow on the day, slow to meet deadlines, slow all week, the computer was refusing to let me do advanced things in a program, and today, these hours of time I might have purchased in the shop working on an armoire, or out biking, or working outside and breathing for the first time in a couple of weeks. These hours.
Were evaporating. Were evanescent reminders. Someone is near death. Other people accomplishing more than me in the same number of years; or less. All of it stirring, turning inside to whisper that the time screams silently by, and it bears a new, unasked whisper, “You have not, and may not accomplish all you had hoped.”
On great days, that refrain comes and enriches my relationships with people I love, projects I have nurtured, and need to complete. I pine for some folks, and play in my head with projects to complete them. Today, it just churned. It made of my soul a little foment.
It made me wonder if James, half brother of Jesus, was churning or pining when he penned, “your life is a vapor (I always think of it on a still lake) gone with the rising sun.”
Now, should I go to bed early or go out into the shop and do things to wood that I can see when I am finished?
Do I take my seconds to bed, or go serve myself a second helping of today?