No Guarantee of Tomorrow

We go through our lives doing the daily chores that need to be done just to get by. We put off doing those things we are working so hard to be able to do…you know, travel, retire, write, camp, spend time with family, start a business, drive off into the sunset, visit our grandchildren, help those less fortunate, learn to play music or dance, or any of the numerous other dreams we have.

We hold ourselves back because we think these day to day activities are more important and are the stepping stone to that point where we want to be someday. But in reality, by using the space of our lifetime that it takes every day to do these habitual things, actually takes us farther from our end goal.

I like to write. I want to write well enough that people look forward to what I have to say in print; whether that is a novel, blog, short story, poem or just a blurb. I need my words to make sense, touch someone’s life, make them feel better or at least feel something, make them think, expose them to something, or just share with them.

So one of my big goals would be to have the time to write whenever I want, for as long as I want without interruption, work, or day to day drivel getting in the way. Yet, I let it get in the way. EVERYDAY.

I assume there is a promise of tomorrow or later today, after all the usual stuff gets done. I do need clean clothes, enjoy my home being clean, and I enjoy eating a good meal and sometimes, believe or not, enjoy making that meal. I love spending time with my husband most of all.

I don’t want to write 24/7. I have to take time to enjoy life, learn, explore and feel in order to put words to paper. I need to see more than what is in front of me, to feel it, to digest it into my system, figure out how it got there or why it stays there, learn what makes it tick, or how it makes me feel when I am letting it enter into my life. That’s what gives me subject matter to write, gives me ways of describing things, therefore I need some of the day to day but at my own pace.

For years, Ken has told me to write. “You are getting older. When are you going to write? Some day it will be too late.” I knew he was correct, yet I always assumed there would be a tomorrow. As my life stick gets shorter on the other end, I know my time to write is also limited by the size of that end of the measure stick.

What is it about humans that make us assume there is a tomorrow? Why can’t we just take today and grab it and run with it full force, the wind knocking us in the face, our legs moving as fast as we can make them go, still pushing them harder, until we have lost our breath, and exhausted the day, ending it happy?