More Than Enough

A beautiful day, warm, breezy. I sit with nothing to beef at except the slick sick feeling that time moves much too quickly. I don’t have enough, and what I do have is squandered. I have continually the sense that this time is invaluable and the opposite sense that I am paralyzed to use it, or am using it wastefully. I find myself wishing, wishing, wishing to have a corner of my own. I want to open mines of life, permeate the matter of this world. And how else to do it but plunge out of this safe scheduled time-clock wage-check world and into my own voids and the shimmering plasma that is life.

The minor hiccup of a problem is that I have not a very clue where to land. At least not in a solid, matter-of-fact, I-know-exactly-where-I -belong kind of a way. I tend to look outside myself, to be itched and kindled to some great work, something burgeoning, fat with the texture and substance of living. Where oh where do I belong? Life shines, beckons, and I feel caught, revolving on a wheel, locked in the steel-toothed jaws of my schedule.

I’m complaining, I know. I can’t help it. It’s the human condition. We are constantly giving birth to desire. We are always wanting more, always reaching, always looking, always lacking. But there is enough. There is enough time. There is enough space. There is a corner for me and my shimmering life mines. It’s all here for all of us. And until I find it, I will keep moving, keep working, keep making dreams to run toward. Because until I find it, I am satisfied. Truly. I am happy, anchored to life by deadlines, laundry and lilacs, the daily bread and a man, the most wonderful man, the dark-eyed stranger, who eats my food and my love and goes around the world all day to come back and find solace in my arms. And that - now - is more than enough.