Life is slowly drifting back to normal after last week's complexities. I'm not quite back on a normal sleep schedule, but our daughter is home, I no longer have rehearsals every night (though there will be three performances again this weekend), all the cars are out of the shop, there's no talk to prepare for, my print has been mailed off to the Women's Works 2012 exhibit in Illinois, and Valentine's Day is over.
Which means my meditation time this morning was much less distracted, though not quite as calm and serene as this photo. And while some part of me breathes in that calm with great delight and a sense of relief, another part of me is clamoring -- so NOW what will you do "with your one wild and precious life?"
I love that that question of Mary Oliver's has a way of echoing through us, sending ripples of anticipation, awareness of possibility into our bones. But some days I wish it didn't leave me with this sense of "not enough;" of not being enough, or doing enough; of not becoming what I'm meant to become.
This might just be the natural aftermath of all that crazy busy-ness of last week. But I know how much I enjoyed giving that workshop (maybe I'll see if I can create a you-tube of it; it was really fun!) and encouraging people's creativity. It was wonderful to watch the audience get excited about possibilities: I'd love to do more of that. But I'm not interested in giving "How-to" presentations -- I don't consider myself a Photoshop expert, and I can't quite see myself in a classroom full of people with laptops.
Gestation time; that liminal space between what was and what's to come. It hits every year about this time, a sure sign that Lent is on its way. You'd think, after all these years, I'd have learned to trust that something will bloom on the other side....