Sometimes

I can turn

a blind eye

to things

like

dirty dishes

and all that matters

is my couch

and my book

on a snowy day.

 

 

 

Most times

I can’t

and mostly

I’m moving,

from dawn to dusk

and the only thing

that knows me 

to be still

is my bed.

 

 

 

Most times

activity is like a habit,

a drug,

each completed task

a little shot

of euphoria

and onto the next.

 

 

It takes intention,

denial,

sacrifice,

to break

that craving

to be efficient,

organized, 

perfect,

finished. 

 

 

Like cutting out sugar.

All or nothing.

I cut out work

all or nothing,

once a week.

Usually I’m a bit jittery at first

and the pressure builds.

But anything becomes 

overwhelming if I 

concentrate on it

hard enough. 

 

 

 

So I think about

other things.

 

Like nature.

There it is.

Just being.

Not doing. 

 

I read poems

just reflecting

not acting.

 

I pray.

I let God be God.

Sovereign,

Without my hurry

helping him.

 

I daydream.

Nap.

Sing.

Read.

Put the kettle on

again.

Be.

 

Someone once said

we were made to be

human beings,

not human doings.

 

 

Today

being comes easy.

Maybe the snow helps.

I’m not aching to “do” today.

I know cause it’s noon and I’m still

in my pajamas

and it’s still snowing

so I will

put the kettle on

again.