It’s cumbersome the load that can fit into one week. The hourly planner connects all the dots for my week of appointments, deadlines, emails, bills, chores, and meals.
I could go on.
So Sunday night I put on armor of lists, routines, and tidy things.
The beat begins again on Monday and I hop every note to the song in heavy boots double knotted.
This morning I am jumping through a slow crescendo after small talk with a barista. I turn the car back on with aspirations of familiar notes when I see alerts that my oil is too low.
I could tell you all the reasons the dashboard lights are urgent. I can’t tell you how I’m suppose to now incorporate new music.
Find me the algorithm that proves the load that fits into one day is heavier than a week and I’ll tell you thanks for the definition of anxiety.
Make sure you include how music turns to math, but only the kind that holds scenarios, the kind whose energy is needed to prevent the bad, to keep the good, to pray away deepest fear. That energy is gone by breakfast.
I’m embarrassed already so please keep your eyes from rolling as we sit down to a dinner of leftovers.
When you ask, “How was your day?” Could I instead tell you all the things I kept from stealing it? Let’s start with how the car did not break down because I replaced the oil. . @letsescapril prompt 3 on “anxiety” #escapril2019
((For my daughters and all the daughters to know they are the tulips for this Spring and the hundreds following. And we are here— there will be others— undoubtedly marveling.))
Tulips can push themselves through barely thawed ground without growing claws without wearing armor without the till to soften and fluff their bed.
Their bodies detailed paper with perfect posture even with their load all on top their shoulders.
I like to think they enjoy us marveling at how they lead the season, marveling at how they trust their instinct, marveling at how much we forget we need them, as they smile in blooms and grow in bounty.
In 5th grade Art class our new project was to make clay food. The teacher asked it to be life-like.
But at home I saw a pile of clay berries shiny and perfect sitting on the sill above the sink.
So I decided to make a giant strawberry— different than all the rest— as a surprise gift to the collection.
I didn’t know the teacher would use me as an example of what not to do for years after, asking, “Have you ever seen a strawberry this size?” . I didn’t know 5th grade would give me the lowest grade I’d ever get in Art.
I didn’t know how embarrassed I’d feel for taking a risk and smiling proud as I turned my project into the kiln thinking how creative I had been.
And I didn’t know how long my mom would keep that giant strawberry on the sill proud and asking, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”