The morning is glorious, though I have not a proper porch to sit upon and enjoy it. What does one call a detached set of five steps to get into the first door leading into one’s building? Whatever we’d like to call it, I am reclining (ha!) on one of said stairs, with my back against the side of the building. It is quite comfortable. The mourning doves are speaking this morning, which means rain. The probable rain must not be imminent, however, as the sky is beautifully blue. I have my second cup of coffee, and I have actually both showered and washed my hair already, which is quite an accomplishment, believe it or not. There’s a little over an hour left before I should leave for church, and life looks relatively okay.

‘Tis not always the case, indeed. I’ve just completed a busy and rather overwhelming week. I have been quite upset at times in the past week and also quite tired. I have been disappointed in myself. And such is the paradox of life. Such is the experience of being human. What is life? I asked one of my roommates. A vapor, we agreed. Which is actually biblical. 

Sometimes life feels decidedly unvapored. There are big decisions to be made. And unfortunately, we live in a world that requires us to make a living, rather than living. So, therefore, instead of a little cottage with a chicken coop and a garden (and a cat)- my abode consists of a shared apartment, a couple of raised garden beds, and these amazing steps, which need to be replaced in the worst way. Yet at the same time, even in the seeming bigness of life, it is so incredibly short. I find it hard to believe that I am really as old as I am, and I’d rather not meditate on that fact for too long. It becomes depressing, for in all these years that I have already had, what have I really done? Since I am quickly becoming vintage, why do I still feel so much like a child? And please, can we stop with the white hair? I’m not even thirty yet, and I’d rather not appear old before my time. The vapor. It’s moving too quickly. 

I’m not an achiever; I’m a dreamer. Yet, in the end, who lives better? Those who are always accomplishing, always doing, and always accumulating- or those who sit on the ancient steps and drink coffee, listening to the mourning doves? We could argue either way. But can we please, as a society, stop overglorifying the busyness? Can we please stop long enough to actually plant the seeds and read the books and hold the babies? We might find that we would become less stressed. And more happy. For what is the point of all the craziness? Is there a point? If not, what a waste it is to be running, running- all the time. 

Stop. Stop. Seriously.

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