WHAT’S THE RUSH
There is so much to be done.
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The eleventh step holds the weight of me. Not only of toes rushing from this one to the next but the whole of me set down hard and gasping. Still a surprise to me after all these healing months.
The four am wake ups, like forgiveness, are not void of offense. They ask me to look directly at what is and apply the best of me. Each day I put away the hours, out-pacing, out-giving, until there is nothing left to unpack or put away.
What’s the rush?
I sit across from her as she asks the question, loaded as the boxes I carry from one set of 17 stairs to the next.
My answer is instant, not rehearsed.
And it surprises me.
I didn't think about cancer.
I didn't think about time.
I didn't think about all the things still undone.
I thought about a paintbrush.
Morning greets me with possibility not with dread.
Through the night, whether forgotten or remembered, the dreams are not of what ifs and what next but of the vivid reality of shape, color, light finding its way into both heart and space.
The body will always rise to what it finds lovely, useful, even transcendent. Healing is no less a creative endeavor than sculpting, or painting a sunset on canvas, or brushing plaster and color onto waiting walls.
What’s the rush?
Rush is the tingle that runs the full length of me when something truth-full is said.
Rush is the eagerness to begin.
Rush is the satisfaction of bringing to life the masterpiece that has been quietly waiting inside me.
What is your rush?
The thing that keeps you up at night,
that awakens you at four am?
Within my new dwelling place there are three sets of seventeen stairs.
Each with an eleventh step— 36 x 11 inches to hold the whole of me while I catch my breath.
All the rest is canvas. An interior as expansive with possibility as the one inside my head.
As unending as forgiveness.
As welcoming as a glance across the room.
As breathtaking as my love’s finger brushing the back of my hand.
What’s the rush?
The answer can never be measured by how much time we have,
but how much we have left to give.
NOTES:
Sometimes the questions we answer most honestly are the ones we don’t have time to prepare for.
"What's the rush?"
I could have answered with exhaustion.
With deadlines.
With illness.
With the thousand practical reasons life feels urgent.
Instead, my heart reached for a paintbrush.
That surprised me.
Maybe that's why paying attention to our first response matters.
Before the mind begins organizing and explaining, something truer often slips through.
It reminds us not only what we fear...
...but what we love.
A few questions to carry with you...
When someone asks, "What's the rush?" what answer rises before you've had time to think?
What is the first thing your heart reaches toward?
What still fills you with anticipation?
What would you wake early to create, nurture, or simply experience?
Have you mistaken urgency for purpose...or purpose for urgency?
What is your rush?
IMAGE: My relationship with stairs has not gone unnoticed. At least not by me. If you pore over the Journal long enough, you'll find them everywhere. For me, stairs have never been simply bridges between one place and the next. They have quietly become places of contemplation, revelation, and sometimes...catching my breath.
P.S. Silly kitties.