This stirs the definer in me. What is finished and whole? A
brick is complete, but it becomes part of a wall, which is not. I have finished
many books, movies, shows, songs, and games. I have finished many days. I have
finished courses and classes, projects and programs, tasks, stories, recipes,
walks, and so much more. Drops of water to form an ocean, dots of ink to pen
the story.
When one is first finished, there’s relief and pride. I
don’t have to do that anymore. I am free. But how quickly I turn to a new task.
How uncomfortable I am without a task.
After relief and pride comes fear, fear that what comes next
won’t be as good as what came before. That I won’t ever finish again. I must
find something else to do.
But no need to worry, no need to rush. Nothing is ever truly
finished. Once you set it in motion it grows and progresses while your back is
turned, fermenting in the earth, growing in the dark.
Beauty in motion, beauty in stillness, beauty in sleep.
Winter comes and takes it all back, wiping the branches bare
and chilling the earth into cold stone. And you start again, with a bare
canvas, and a few memories to remind you of last year, last time.
