If whatever it is can't get done today because you need the time, the space for rest? So it doesn't get done today. In the vast scheme of this vast life, what will better ensure your (thriving) survival: that the to-do list be complete, or that you be rested enough to make sense of the list you (probably) penned in the middle of the night when sleep eluded you (again)?
A well-rested brain would surely know the wiser answer to that.
Granted, one needs to engage in self-reflection in order to learn anything in this world and to be a better friend to oneself, to the ones we love, to the planet in general.
But we, as is our wont, can indulge a thing to the point of madness--not every moment, not every impulse needs to be examined. At best, the practice becomes rote, at worst, an obsession. We are allowed to let ourselves off the hook. We are allowed spontaneity.
In the moments when we can't get a clear view of our surroundings, the answer is almost always to slow down--one's pace, one's breath, one's mind. Only when we can take in what's around us without including ourselves in the picture, then perspective, if not a plan of action, follows.
Indecision, panic, and anxiety are self-centered conditions, meaning that with the gaze turned inward--that limited space inward--a way out, a solution, is almost impossible to come across. But when we take ourselves outside of ourselves--get an aerial view, so to speak--we see where we are in space. We see how blessedly small we are, and we see--in the vast reaches of our landscape--just how many possibilities there are open to us.
At a mournfully early age, we're taught, by pack mentality, to blend in, to assimilate. Or, if we are to stand out, to stand out for our beauty, our brains, our speed, our grace. But what about our individuality? Have we become so afraid of criticism, of being judged by those who happen to hold the scepters this go-around, that whatever color we expressed in childhood has faded into the accepted beige palette?
What happened to the kid who insisted on wearing a tutu to school? A Batman costume to the supermarket? The one who collected stones and bits of shell, pronouncing them treasures with the assurity of one who is in touch with a world larger than the dictates of what is deemed "acceptable"?
Recall that spark. Recall that color. And, if only for an hour, invoke her and defy the ordinary. Stand up in this skin--rainbows and glitter, saucy hats, wild hair and all.
Petals--don't let them bring you down. Don't let them, just because they're seemingly immortal, fueled by hatred and bigotry, fear and privilege, make you question yourself, your mission, or your right to your place in this world. You are a creature of light and your powers far outweigh theirs.
We are in this for the long game. Them? They're here for the sprint.
Petals, we have no choice--we have to peel open our hearts like flowers and give them some air and some space, some rain and some sun. Even a good stormy wind won't do us any harm. On the contrary--it might lift away the deadweight, anything dried and clinging to the stem, anything that's holding us back.
We can't stop the winds and the raging storms, so we might as well calm ourselves, open our hearts and our minds, and let the storm pass. Let it take what it will take, because we'll gather what's left and be all the more radiant for it.
There is so much truth to the sentiment that it takes a village to do, well, anything. And my village consists of wind and sunrise, birdsong and rainfall, high tides and low tides, a certain surrender of effort, and a very necessary relinquishing of control.
There's a human factor, of course, but that faction requires more conscious attention, more immediate interaction, and while that's something, and something beyond value, it's not everything. We must, at least for part of our day, for part of our lives, put ourselves at the mercy of elements beyond our control.
Being lifted out of control is so very good for our health, and such a soothing tonic for overheated minds.
I don't really want to talk about my struggles. But I really don't want to talk about my joys, either. Really, I just don't want to talk. I only want to sit here in the sweet silence of this sweet company and give all my attention to being content here, now.
Perhaps that strikes you as a waste of energy, focusing it all on remaining content in the moment. But you know, I imagine it's how a kite feels the first fifty times it's launched, looking down and checking, again and again, to see if its string is still secure, eventually learning that yes, it is safe to be happy here now, to trust the currents here now.