“It’s about being, not doing,”
I mumble to myself and glance up at all there is to do.
So much stuff to do.
So many places to go.
So many things to finish.

The to-do list taps me on one shoulder
And laughs when I look over the other.

I stop what I’m doing to read with the children,
to play with them,
to go places
and see things
and do things
and just be all there.
And it is good.
Oh.so.good.
And I am happy.
Oh.so.happy.

But when I get back, it’s all still there – waiting. waiting.  waiting.

I start a project and get distracted by another.

I don’t have time to read, to write.
I need to read, to write, to create.
I tend to lose myself without my words to define me.

But then I wonder…is that so bad after all?
To just be – with no words there to remind you of all you do.
With no definitions to smother you with all that you already are.
With no notions to hold you back from being, just being.

I write for me.
I write to remember.
I write to absolve my soul.
I write to heal my heart and make sense of it all.

But those same words that heal me and hold me together also hold me back.

It’s about being, not doing.  (Or writing.)

-Written as part of Just Write.