There’s a price I pay for ignoring myself.
A million tiny times a day.
I’m bored at the park but I go anyway, because the boys want to. And I sit there on the bench and feel a little less alive.
I want to read my book, but I wash the dishes instead, because it’ll be that much sweeter to crack the book open with the clean dishes steaming in the rack. But then Cal wakes up and the book sits still. And I feel a little less satisfied.
Reading this, I was reminded of how compressed life gets, under the routine requirements, obligations, appointments, demands.
It may just be the path of least resistance to turn our aliveness down under such circumstances, under the weight of many tasks that we wouldn’t willingly choose, but that relentlessly nudge for our attention.
There is always space to be found.
Like in the atoms I was explaining to Jo before bed.
There’s more space inside an atom than stuff. And we’re made up of atoms. So that means we’re made up of more space than stuff. Our bodies, this table, my shoes, that lamp, they’re all mostly space. Isn’t that crazy?!
It’s the smallest choice to read instead of wash. To pause and let the sun breeze over my cheeks before buckling a boy into his car seat. To ignore the robotic pull of dinner prep at 6 on a Tuesday and instead sip on champagne and watch the boys whiz by on their scooters.
It’s the smallest choice.
And a portal into the biggest space.