Thursday, September 26, 2013

Busy Lives

We are a busy bunch, a lazy bunch, a tired bunch, a broken bunch.

We are busy working up a storm. We have no time for that one hour lunch--too long, too long--so we sit in our desks and eat our hastily made packed lunches or fast food sandwiches. We eat while we work, forgetting to taste our food and sometimes forgetting to chew. Instead of the sunshine outside we see the glow of the computers. Instead of the sound of birds or the rustle of the leaves, we hear mouse clickings and keyboard typings. And this goes on yet we do not catch on. We don't see what we can't see and we don't see what we do not want to see.

We're too lazy to do our chores. A clean house is a happy house but a productive you is a frustrated you. So we come home and we see the dishes and the laundry but we sit on the couches and surf on our laptops. This is our weeknights. Rest, we say. We are resting from a busy day by sitting and spending our days away.

Then before we know it, the sun has set and the hours have gone by too fast. Again. Our bones are weary, our minds are lazy, and our eyes are drowsy. The feet are dragged to the bedroom. The covers thrown aside. And all too fast sleep has come and another night has passed.

While this all happens our lives are going. We're spinning in circles, chasing our tails. We think we're going but we're exactly where we started. What we want is not there. What we want is not here. So what is it? What do we want? We waste our time pondering this and all the while lives are breaking. We work and we sleep and we hesitate but we ignore everything besides the work in front of us. We're a broken bunch and a needy bunch.

The conversations past, the vacations that were never rested, and the living that was never haunts us. We cover up the jagged edges of life yet still, we remain busy, and lazy, and tired, and above all, crumbling human beings.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Saturday, September 14, 2013

The Sin of Omission by Margaret E. Sangster

It isn't the thing you do, dear;
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flower you might have sent, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts to-night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of brother's way,
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.

The little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind;
Those chances to be angels
Which every one may find
They come in night and silence
Each chill, reproachful wraith
When hope is faint and flagging
And a blight has dropped on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great;
To suffer our great compassion
That tarries until too late;
And it's not the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.