the zen of not having zen
Life has hurled a lot of craziness at me lately. Nothing catastrophic, nothing that, in the grand scheme of things, cannot be handled, just a long list of scrambling to do things. So, deep breath. And another. And yet another.
Time gets away from me, giggling at my vain attempts to grasp it as it goes flying by. Time. That ever-elusive, enemy of my enemy who is my friend.
There is never any more or less time. Never a day with fewer hours or added seconds, time is as steady as she always has been. Patient. Gentle. Stalwart.
The craziness comes when we fill time with too many things. Adding one more accomplishment, one drop at a time, until that bowl just has to overflow. And then, of course, we have a mess to clean up. Meanwhile, time just sits there watching, probably smiling to herself at our silliness. Our scrambling. Our whining.
One of the things I have always loved about my garden is that it teaches me about patience. About blooming while planning for the future. About soaking up the sun and enjoying every last minute of it. About not giving up on a rainy day. About bending with the wind.
About that old cliche, stopping to smell the flowers. And then listening to what they have to say.
And about emptying that bowl called time, adding just a bit of water, and floating one perfect bloom on the surface.
Gently now, gently.
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