|Mid December Morning|
The days are short, and there's a shortage of days. Not enough days or hours to do all the things we need to do to satisfy our self imposed standards.
December 13th. Twelve days to Christmas, eleven to Christmas Eve. Where will I find the time, as I rush through my days, to do all that has to be done? Buy the presents. Buy the tree. Put the tree up. Buy the food. Cook the food. Finish the work for the clients who need it all done and dusted before 21 December, when the industry shuts down till the New Year. I feel the panic rise and with it the helpless feeling of not knowing what to do first.
Then I pause. All to meet an arbitrary date. A man made date. All to meet these self imposed standards, so carefully policed. Policed not just by myself but by all those around me. "Have you got everything? Have you done your shopping? Is your tree up yet? When will you put it up?".
Meanwhile, the sun continues to rise every morning, oblivious to the scurry, and worry, and urgency. Oblivious to our self important ways.
The days are short. That is the way of days in mid December. These short days are the perfection of the season. Listen to what they tell you.
There is no shortage of days, just days that are perfectly short.
All you do is enough.
There's nothing more required.
And as Christmas arrives, let it be perfect, with all that is done, and all that is undone.