Finding My Friday Again

The helter skelter of the last few weeks has prompted me to run this particular “Deja Tuesday” post. This was originally written sometime back around mid November of last year. Since then “Finding my Friday” has become one of my favorite phrases.

It is slightly rewritten to reflect the new year and my new understanding of the comma, but is otherwise mostly in tact.

Enjoy!

Life never unfolds quite as expect, and hoping that it will is more than a little like swatting fog. Days unfold, weeks disappear, and we often find ourselves doing our best when we simply catch up and catch our breath. We keep our eyes fastened forward, accept what we see, remain thankful for all we have that is working, and arrange to change what doesn’t.

We cannot stop life from happening. It goes on every day with or without us. It follows us everywhere, surrounding us at all times no different than the air we breathe.

We never know how one moment will drift into the next, so it is paramount we regard our moments as each a possible precursor to the last; forever fixing our face toward the now, while never forgetting to flick our eyes at the horizon and whatever prize we’ve placed beneath, while understanding there are few things we can simply compel to happen.

When big things happen suddenly, there is often unreasonable cost attached.

Like a tsunami, or avalanche.

Life, at its best, happens bit by tiny bit.

Does the caterpillar know what he will one day be?

Probably not.

One thing Cindy has always said, though only now am I hearing it in the way she’s always meant it: “We mustn’t ever skip our steps.”

I love our modern world, but when I can download nearly anything that caresses my mood, how can I remain humble and look patience in the eye? More important, how can I teach this to my children?

There’s an order to life, and to most things we say we want and are willing to work for. Skipping even a single step, often means misunderstanding or misapplying something in the future. If we consider we are here just once, this seems precarious and unnecessary.

My biggest one to grow on during my twenties was patience. Fortunately, life saw fit to outfit me with the ultimate foe of an impatient man: first a girl and then a boy.

I’m more patient than I used to be, but I still have about a million miles to meander.

Last Friday, I was in the middle of telling Cindy about my brand new idea – the new one; the one that would change everything, allow us to scale our next summit, and plant a flag deep inside all future possibility. A good fifteen minutes had passed since the last idea and, since it was getting late, it was perfectly possible a better idea would not arrive before the dawn.

“Sweetheart,” Cindy said, placing her hand on my forearm to stop me from pacing. She gingerly pulled me on the love seat beside her. “You need to find your Friday.”

These last few months have seen me celebrating my new life as a full time writer by piling more and more onto my ridiculously heaping plate. I tackle each week as though the Romans didn’t get it done in a day by choice. There’s a lot to be said for working hard and using every minute, but it is something else entirely when your minutes are misapplied.

But doing my best doesn’t always mean doing my most.

I found my Friday, and fortunately, my Saturday and Sunday sailed into the sunset right behind.

Writer Dad

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