Life is what happens to you while you were busy making other plans.
Imagine the web we spin ourselves.
Not a web of lies, not a tangled web.
Well, it’s probably tangled. But unless you have major issues, your web is tangled by life, not by lies.
Your web is tangled by your job and your kids, by the broken toilet in the upstairs bath and the unpaid dentist’s bill. It is complicated by the siblings you love but who ask for crazy things, and the parents you adore but who are needing you more than they used to.
And you hurry to and fro, patching the web here, spinning more thread to support something over there, wrapping a cocoon around something to protect it way over yonder, and then zipping back to the center to barely catch your breath before something tears the web over in the back forty.
Off you go again.
And at some point you stop and think, when did my life become this web?
Where did this shape come from? When did I become a weaver? I was going to be a cowgirl!
Only now so many things depend on the web that you can’t just walk away and find a horse.
Your children live there, and so does your relationship. Possibly your career, and certainly it is your home.
You don’t want to let all those things crash to the ground just so you can wear a big hat.
So you sit there and look around at your web. You love it, you made it, you are proud of it. But…a little bit…you resent it.
You resent how much it needs you, how so much of what it needs only seems to be able to come from you, from the threads you spin and the patterns you weave.
Where would you ever fit a horse?
And when you think a little bit harder, you really don’t like cows all that much if they’re not in a Big Mac and what you really want from the whole cowgirl experience is sunshine and some of the cute fringy clothes.
I am here to tell you that sunshine and cute fringy clothes will fit in your web. They will fit in your life.
We think so often in terms of big bites. And sometimes we need them. We need big, giant, flavorful, all-you-can-eat bites.
But sometimes that is – if you’ll forgive the pun – biting off more than we can chew.
I posted a piece a couple of weeks ago that talked about the leap. And sometimes that is all we can do. We must leap to save ourselves, to save our sanity.
But what do we do when the leap is too much, or…sometimes…impossible?
That’s when we sit down with a soothing drink, and ponder.
Like Pooh Bear. But less fuzzy. (Well, I’m looking at my legs and thinking, “maybe just as fuzzy.”)
Think small this time. Think about the little step that changes the color of your world just a little.
Think about the change that brings you a breath closer to the person you see inside when you close your eyes.
Then take a sip of the drink and plan out how, in the next seven days, you will get that one little thing done.
‘Cause Lori told me I had to.
And you know that come seven days from now, I’m going to ask you.
So Go! Now!
I’m dying to hear.