The other day I reached the end of my doing. I was trying to do many things, and not happy with the results. I was falling behind on work tasks, phone calls, house chores. Library books were overdue; emails were unwritten. I wasn't getting to my writing projects. Then I remembered something ve-ry, ve-ry clear and sweet and simple: my life is for being, not doing.
It is not a profound truth, but one that few of us continually grasp. I have to learn and relearn it over and over. I measure my day and life by how much I accomplish, and when the gears are sticking or stopping I think I've missed my purpose, let God down somehow. This is not my life, nor anything close to it.
My life is for living. Breathing, experiencing. Communing with the Divine and all the underlings of the Divine. (Divinderlings, if you will.) Some days, weeks, months, just don't turn out to be very productive - the way I think they should. But when I relax into being and let my true purpose radiate, something wonderful always shows up. I begin again, getting to be.
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