not wasting wasted time
creating: worthwhile wasted time
I woke to the sounds of a crying baby- my new alarm these days. He slept well and needed to eat. Full, swaddled, and happy I placed him back in the basinet in our bedroom closet and pictured the day his grown-man frame would barely fit in the closet, let alone this little, baby bed.
I shuffled out of our room and poured myself some tea. Every morning starts here. The warmth of the mug feels right even in Texas summers. The taste is familiar and hopeful. It triggers the beginning of an untapped day. Possibilities and unknowns collide inside my brain in the company of my tea each morning.
I grab the essentials: my hand-held tattered, pink Bible, a spiral journal, phone, tea, computer and my first breakfast. There’s no bread to toast in the house so a protein bar will do; peanut butter flavor because- of course.
I tiptoe past the girls’ room and into the upstairs room I’ve spent the least amount of time in. Our shared office. We have two desks side by side that make me giggle each time I see them because of how much they represent us. Austin’s is sleek, black, organized with hidden wires and multiple screens all turned off and charging quietly. Mine consists of a bulletin board of whites filled with encouraging notes, photos and colorful images that inspire me, a floral box, a camera, a little succulent plant. These desks are us. In side-by-side desk form.
I begin in scripture. Paul writes to his new Greek friends. He describes the gentleness of a nursing mother. It is not lost on me.
I move from the floor to the leather chair in the corner and take out my computer. It is day one of practicing the Artist’s Way… writing multiple pages right when I wake up, unedited, even when I feel like the words aren’t there. I notice how ferociously I’m typing. I write over and over about how I don’t want to waste this precious time- before children are up, before the whirlwind begins.
Then it hits me. My breath is short. My pace is fast. I am hurrying and listening to my inner “GO GO GO” voice all in the name of ‘not wasting time.’
I wonder then if the bottom parts of me believe that writing, for no ‘real’ reason is a waste of time? I do. And it’s not right.
There are surprise raindrops outside the west-facing window. As my breath deepens and my pace slows, I notice my fingers dancing on the keys to the rhythm of the rain. Almost like a choreographed dance. I notice how much I love writing words. I notice how I treasure early mornings.
I love wasting time writing. I love expressing my heart and the hushed parts of my mind this way. I love writing things people will never read and I love writing things a few people may read. I am learning that if I love wasting time writing this much, it is not in slightest a waste of my time.
What do you love wasting time doing? This is not a waste of time, friend.