Busy-ness drains not only time, but creativity.

(Or at least the busy-ness we sometimes encounter.

ie,

the kind I've had in my life recently.)

And so now I come to write and these are the things I remember:

I see myself tying my apron before I walk onto the floor at work, imagine the constant smell of soup in one of the homes I do therapy in, I see coffee beans pouring into a grinder or into an espresso bin, I feel myself cuddling under the covers at night, laying on my right side, pillow over my head. I see the digits on my phone light up as I call someone about flowers, someone about locking the keys in my car, call an old friend, call my mom, call the doctor, as I text you, text him, call the reception site, run to the art store, go to the bank, call about nannying, call to check in at work. I see purples and browns and greens, blues. I hear birds in the morning as I lie in bed and hug the pillow. Sun shines through the leaves on trees, on to my car's window, through the slits of a shade. More texts, more calls, more coffee beans, more breaks, some reading, more notes, less remembering. More therapy work, driving, filling up at this gas station, at that one. Stopping for food, always stopping for food. "Chicken sandwich, please!" I do not often like hamburgers. Driving, talking, planning, enjoying, burn out, sleep, waking, breathing, blinking.

Life is busy.

Life is rich.

But now I rest.