Christmas time means setting priorities, even more-so than other times of the year. It means deciding what to do with the precious few minutes I have between work and sleep, between preparing and cleaning up after meals, between buying and wrapping presents, decorating the tree and hanging the lights, sitting down with my son to help him with his piano, his homework, the crafty ideas he has for family presents. Between everyone else’s needs.
Is there any time left?
There is a bit. Every now and then.
But what can I cram into those few minutes? Maybe a cup of coffee, a few deep breaths, maybe a daydream.
I don’t seem to have enough time, though, to clear my head and find the words I need to write. When I do get a twinkling of something, I sometimes manage to sketch it out but then I’m interrupted and it ends up joining the lengthening list of drafts I’ve saved up for “later.”
Last year, I had all the time in the world. I had eight hours a day of wandering in the woods, of sitting in the kitchen, of staring out the window. Infinite extra cups of coffee. Infinite daydreams.
I had time to think about my goals, to reflect on what I had achieved.
I’d like to at least do that this year. At several points during the year, a few of my friends and I traded posts and comments about what types of and numbers of goals are reasonable for a year. I’d like to revisit that thinking.
I’d also like to get to that poem I had planned to post this weekend. The story I can’t quite get right, though I’ve been fixing it up for over a month. The idea I had today at 3:00 am.
Some days — some weeks — are harder than others. I’ve just barely managed to stubbornly hold on to my goal of posting at least something each week. More weeks than I’d care to admit, I have felt as though I’m hanging from a precipice, the wind howling so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear my inner voice, with just barely enough life force left to hold on.