seasons of the soul

That's seasons with a small s... don't expect anything too profound...

It's just that I go through "phases" (as my mother used to call it), and I find that these phases or seasons are as predictable as the seasons of the year, as regular as my hormones used to be. Now that I have no hormones, there's extra energy to devote to other endeavors, and one of them is as simple as noticing.

I notice that as I age I procrastinate less. Perhaps that's because my body now assures me that my life span is not immortal. "Do it now or it may not get done" seems a good mantra these days. That is not to say I never procrastinate... case in point: a small package with Christmas gifts, never mailed, has been under my bed since December. It's now March. The Post Office is two blocks away. What's that about?

I finally asked myself that the other day as I busily attended to other things and kept skirting the box. Ah... it's about not being enough. Of course. The childhood message, reinforced over the years, comes back to haunt me at the weirdest times. Because the gifts are meager I have not sent them.

When I lay it out on the table it seems a little silly that I'm letting some chocolate go stale and a book which could be enjoyed sit under my bed because I'm feeling wanting. It's so lose-lose that I'm embarrassed, yet it is what it is.

So the season of: finish it up-unless you're afraid it's not enough-then don't do it at all, is upon me. What other projects fall into that category, I wonder... do I really want to open this can?