Library as Church.

The other day I had about 45 minutes to spend all alone before work.  I've been trying to stop my pattern of constant over-caffeination, and also realized that I didn't bring the iPad.  As I drove, I was clueless about what I could do that didn't involve sitting urbanly in a cafe, drinking espresso and scrolling around the internet.

I turned onto Main St., and saw an open parking spot right in front of the library. 

"Of course", I thought. 

I walked in and was immediately filled with a rush of adrenaline. 

I headed back toward the non-fiction section and started grabbing.  I piled books into my arms, books I've been wanting to read for years, books that I can't possibly remember to look for when I'm there with my eager children. 

As the pile grew, I found myself smiling giddily.  A pile of six books felt uncontrollably indulgent - there's no way I'll read them all before they're due, and it doesn't matter.  

Last Thursday, my library felt like a magical palace of potential, where whim and fancy were okay, allowable and encouraged. 

Supreme magic, indeed.

::: 

I've come to the sudden and jolting realization that time's up on my sophisticated illusion of action, of progress, of movement.

See, I'm an office supplies addict, someone who'd happily and easily spend a whole day scouring Staples for the just-right supplies for my Here Comes My New Amazing Life Binder. 

(In fact, I have two such binders right now, though they have slightly different titles.) 

I look at my binders and feel so inspired by their tabs, their sections, their lists.   

The potential for action is right there! 

 And yet I'm constantly spinning my wheels; a to-do list is only as good as the things you cross off of it, right?

My days always feel frenetic and busy, like I must be getting so much done.  But really, I'm just completely unfocused, bouncing from getting dressed to Facebook (refresh, refresh, refresh) to "I'll be right there!" to Facebook (repeat) to loading half of the dishes into the dishwasher to something else.

There's no intention, not anywhere. 

Intention. 

What is my intention?  With my life?  With my days? 

Peace, I think.  And kindness.  Patience.  Love. 

And those things look like a recipe for maintainable happiness. 

Or at least for a bunch of good moments. 

Happy Saturday, lovelies, 
*E