If I had a page and a third standing between me and the rest of this glorious day, what would I write?
Would it be a poem about sunshine and bird song and the changing of seasons? Or a dark and desolate tale of monsters with two legs and weapons and oppression on their minds?
Or would I sing a song of love and joy and patience and all those fruits? Or an essay about “how freedom means to sometimes follow higher laws” (quoting a song I wrote 40 years ago that still resonates despite the split infinitive)?
Or would I finally work up the nerve to tackle unfinished business? Or stop and take the dog for a walk; she is after all leaning in with puppy eyes and anxious sighs? No, the whole point was to finish my morning journal pages and then walk the dog.
Why do some days feel “together” and others, like this, feel discombobulated? I guess that’s just how humans are — we frustrate ourselves on a daily basis. “Oh, I missed my chance — I forgot what I meant to say or do — woe is me, well, maybe tomorrow.”
And then another day passes and we wake and say, “Well, phooey on yesterday, today is here and off we go.”
Every day will fall short of what we wish it could have been, but every day is a new opportunity and another blank page, so if we shoot for the stars at least we will get a few inches or feet or miles off the ground, and pretty soon we’ll be flying, flying I tell you, and at the very least we’ll reach the bottom of the page and give that patient dog her wish.
