Lately, I have been feeling like my to-do list has a life of it's own.
I mark off one thing and add three more.
I have been feeling like I am running just to stay where I am, and I am tired of it.
The other day I read this poem:
Pursuit, by Stephen Dobyns
Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass -
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen, then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
I don't so much fear what's chasing me, but that feeling of rushing around and not doing anything of importance (to me) is eating at me. It IS important that the house is clean-I want healthy children and a dirty home is damaging in many ways. It's important that we homeschool, that we have days with friends, that we get to appointments on time. That our food is healthy, our bodies are moving more than sitting, that what we read and watch add something to our day, not just burn through time.
But deeper than that-what is it that I want from these years I have been given, what am I working toward and is it worth the pursuit? I don't want to look back and see wasted time and look ahead to empty days.
