Attention Span {a poem}

I'm thankful for a partner
who so patiently helps me
make a schedule, create a plan
even as I groan and fuss and insist
I can't stick to it.

She sees the extortion
of the toll I pay many times a day,
how I throw my time in the air
like so many seeds, then cry
when everything comes up growing
in chaotic places -- lilies in the bedroom,
emails in the pantry with the dried goods,
life scattered and energy scattered
and is it any wonder I'm tired?

I put down the phone, step one
in any protocol to taking your time back,
remembering what it feels like to be a person
in a room doing a thing, one thing at a time.

Just as Ecclesiastes tells us there's a season
for everything under the sun,
so must there be a time of day --
a time for work and a time for calls,
a time for errands and a time for cleaning,
a time for reading and a time for sleeping,
a time for creating and a time for resting.

Without some help, I never rest.
I mean, yes, I sleep. But even my sleep is riddled
with unbridled dreams that never come home
when I call.

I'm thankful for kindness, friends
who tell you that overwhelm is not a sign
of failure, friends who say imagine what you could do
if you weren't doing 20,000 things at once.

And it is vulnerable, too, to admit when a thing
isn't working, to say I need to make some changes,
to not know what the changes will lead to.

Fear loves moments like this. Fear insists
things will fall apart, when your wiser angels
whisper that in fact, life might get a whole lot better
once you stop interrupting yourself
(and others).

Collectively, our attention span has shrunk --
what was once a suspension bridge across
a wide expanse of open water is now
a single plank across a puddle.

I want to rebuild that long, spacious
crossing, where taking my time
between one place and another
is its own satisfaction, not a little hop
and then another little hop
and all that hopping around
leaves me feeling like a twit
or a small bird who runs out of fuel
after pecking away at some dirty old pizza crust.

By the way, dear reader, don't even try
to make rhyme or reason of this --
it's not a poem,
it's not a manifesto,
it's not suitable for eating or drinking,
probably best we toss it to the bottom
of the pool, let it sink,
let it sit there abandoned
while the water drains out
and we slowly gather our towels,
our bags and bottles and books.

Being here with you, always a gift.