Sometimes we all just need to admit that life is spinning a little faster in our personal solar systems. This confession seems most obvious to me when someone else's turbo orbit has just decreased in speed- I wave thrashingly to that someone else as I wiz by.
|Champ is the ULTIMATE BEST at balancing intensity and relaxation.|
Being busy is actually fine by me. I like the structure that must be made of it, I appreciate the checks next to all the things raced to completion. Busy in and of itself is how the majority of my hours, days, months are spent: I know this to be true because I can remember a time when I didn't have quite so much going on and I know similar frivolous moments will re-emerge in the most distant future. For now, busy is the buzzword of my life; don't go thinking of that as a complaint, please.
"We all have the same 24/7. What we do with our time becomes our priority. Choose what you do with your time and do not lead a life by default”
- Patt Hollinger Pickett
Busyness and default: two separate things. Usually when I begin to lose my mind, it's because I've accidentally set my systems to "default". My inner peace relies heavily on how long it takes me to find the reboot switch. My eyes sweep around the house looking for it and I feel a vague awareness of energy beginning to overtake me; noticing all the contented creatures milling about the sunshine.
I slowly begin to remember that busy is fine, cruising default through my days is not: things must be shook up. If it's nice weather I drag some of those creatures outside. We turn on music and dance vigorously on the grass, I force group selfies on them to provide me evidence later (when I forget again) that children grow quickly and yes, busyness is legit.
Look! Look! One must balance both or else that 'ol cliche of boys maturing and tasks never getting ticked off becomes the truth. Who ever would want that? I will make the time to recognize I do not want that truth. Ever.
Socrates hangs on my bookshelf too. He scolds, "Beware the barrenness of a busy life." He does not like to hand words out gently, like Ms. Pickett. The brute blows his urgent breath hotly onto my cheeks, even as he (in his own way) repeats what Ms. Pickett has already said. Self told me to listen to their words and so I do. The reset button found, I revisit my "to do" list (it's not like it will magically go away) and devise a plan.
My boys easily model what those writers continually clock me over the head with. They have their own activities to complete and timelines to manage, yet somehow they do it with a hell of a lot more grace and composure than I have.
It's a fact people are busy, it grows exponentially with age (until, so I hear, it doesn't). Years will pass and the lists my boys create will mature: they will scrawl down hard, most difficult things to be accomplished. It will not always be a life of buying groceries, changing the car's oil, climbing the backyard tree. May they never lose their ability to balance, or at the very least may they remember that books always provide fighting words when the world demands that life should be just so.
Life is intensely busy. Life is relaxed.
Life should never ever be just so.