My busyness, whether that which comes with life’s seasons or that which I bring upon myself, robs me of my wonder and my joy. What I know with my head isn’t always consistent with what I do with my time, too often frittering it away as I confuse activity with effectiveness. I know this is true and I see the folly, but why don’t I translate that knowledge into the action of proaction, of margin and space, of quiet and reflection? I think that for me, there are several answers to the question and as these thoughts percolate in my mind, ideas gradually become coherent. There is much there, but it is still mostly hidden from me, like these roots.
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