The Life of a Day by Tom Hennen

It's all catching up with me.  The early mornings, the late nights, the constant pounding demand on my body, on my head, on my time.  The breaking point comes more quickly every single time and takes more direct measures to counteract it.

There's so much scrambling, scrabbling, scuttling and shuffling.  Things on my list to scratch off, other action items to add.  Rooms to clean, clothes to fold, tv shows to watch, errands to run, BOOKS TO READ, blog posts to write.  Birthdays to celebrate, deaths to grieve, holidays to plan and correspondences to keep.  Remember to eat healthy, exercise, sleep more, drink water.  It's enough to make my head whirl and twirl and twist right off.  The mashings of the machination are easy to get caught in, forget why you're here and before you know it, you're a bloody beet purple pulp, gasping for breath at the finish line, the end of the line.

Take a second for yourself.  Take a breath.  Smile and wink at your own reflection and acknowledge, yes today is yet another day that is yours for the taking and making.  Tom Hennen's poem below reminds me of all the days that are flying past that we'll never get back.  Is it too late to add another resolution to 2013 for all of us?  I resolve that we shall to enjoy the time we spend watching that Big Bang Theory / Sons of Anarchy / Breaking Bad marathon, soaking in the tub, clipping coupons - whatever our particular pleasure may be.  And we'll do it with consciousness and know that today will be like none other.

Sunset on a Fall Day

The Life of a Day by Tom Hennen

Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night’s meandering skunk.