I am writing this for you.
You, who are trying all sorts of things to make your life work better. And then suddenly are trying nothing because everything has slid into that handbasket headed for hell.
You, who are wanting to be the best everything you can be: email-responder, show-er-upper, never-late-er, always prepared-er.
You, who are wishing you didn't cancel appointments at the last minute because you suddenly couldn't figure out how to fit it all in.
I love you, and I love all your efforts. And I know that you are trying so hard, and I know that sometimes you give up and just sit on the couch and talk to your friend or your spouse or yourself for two hours and then that throws everything into disarray because you didn't do whatever you were planning to do with that two hours and also you didn't go to bed on time, and you think both, "WHY did I do that?" and also, "WHY can't I do that?"
Because, of course. You should be able to do that every once in a while. Or maybe even often.
And I want to know: Can we laugh about this? Can we laugh about our intensity and struggle and jamming of 12 things into a 3-thing space?
Not in a crazed way. Not in a self-deprecating way. We already do that.
Can we actually be amused by all our efforts in a loving way? With compassion?
I mean, so many of us are doing it, and from afar, I'm thinking we probably look kind of hilarious, running around and collapsing, running around and collapsing, running around and collapsing.
I'm imagining what it must look like to some faraway being when we wake up and instead of peering out the window to see the birds and the trees in the dark of the early morning, we pick up a small rectangular glowing thing and poke away at it with our eyes scrunched and baggy, with our shoulders hunched and raised.
I'm thinking of what it must look like from 10,000 feet when we race through meetings and crank out reports and chunk through emails only to sit, exhausted in our offices, scrolling through People Magazine online because we need to decompress, falling in that rabbit hole, and then showing up late to pick up our children.
What is, after all, actually important to me?
That we have enough.
That I am on time to pick up my child.
That I register how people are doing when I am with them.
That I work hard in a way that adds value.
That I make new things.
That I rest.
That I laugh.
So, the next time I am running and collapsing, running and collapsing, running and collapsing--which will likely be later today--I hope to pretend I'm a visiting being from another time or another planet. I hope to take a look at myself and have a loving laugh.
I am writing this for you.