Holy Week

It's Holy Thursday.   I'm standing in the kitchen with my bullet journal open and no idea what to do.   But there is a lot to do.  So much, in fact, before Easter, and the dent I've put in that to-do list isn't worth calling the insurance company over.  I'm already stressed, anxious about my ultimate failure, slow and inevitable like a melting glacier.  Can I please just skip ahead to the Alleluia, wake up on a sunny Paschal morning with the dishes sparkling in the drying rack and the outfits laid out clean and crisp to put on for Mass?  I'm not ready.  I'm not prepared.  I don't even know where to begin.



So maybe today, I'll just ignore the to-do list.  I mean, do things if I feel so moved, but channel my energy into being present, even imperfectly so, even if I fall asleep.  On just waiting and watching and praying in the Garden.  All I have to bring is me.  All I have to do is be.

I think I can do that.  I think it'll be okay.