I fear I have become
A Monster of Productivity.
My skin has hardened into
Scales of armor:
A prison for my soul,
Small and groaning
From the pit of my stomach,
Giving me indigestion.
I fear my hands have sharpened into
Claws to shred soft young skin.
I fear my tongue has become a slab,
My voice a gravelly rumble.
I fear my eyes have become
Deadened to sunlight. I cannot see
A duck fishing on a rippling pond
In autumn. My mind are gears
That crunch and crunch as they
I have nothing left to fear
* * *
Today I had the sudden realization that this week might actually be--comparatively--easy. So easy, that I might be able to spend this morning doing something fun and spontaneous.The revelation shocked me to the core.
Last week, I was busy with three jobs, two projects, and one Nanowrimo. But I wrote up a schedule, calculated my hours, and executed like a 5-Star General. For all my angst and fear of Nanowrimo, I ended up ahead of my word count. (Incidentally, last Friday, I also got a letter saying I got into my Credential Program--so yay for me--student teaching, here I come.)
Which is good, I suppose. I feel settled, I have a routine, I'm happy. But I worry that I spend too much time doing and not enough time being. Does that make sense? Take writing, for example. I've developed a considerable set of skills. I can outline, knock out word counts, revise, and edit. But do I actually have anything to say? Have I somehow lost the art in the obsession to master skills?
Maybe what I really want is time to relax. A large chunk of time where I'm not juggling schedules, projects, and expectations, where I can walk and read and have adventures and not worry about the To-Do List waiting for me at home.