When I (feel I) have done all I can for the time being, I am good. Centered, content, joyful, skipping down side streets, possessed of a light, swaying step, singing along with my eyes closed, a companion of every emotion, captured by none.

However, if the slightest doubt lingers, if I cannot affirmatively answer, “Have I done everything I have time and mental/physical energy to do toward XYZ goal or project?” I too often spin myself into a web of anxiety from which I find it difficult to extricate myself.

In the cradle of this snare, I continue to love easily, laugh from down deep, touch the edges of serenity – but only with assistance. I become nearly incapable of being that helping friend.

“Enough” is a blessed word, but I fear dependance on it lest I grow lazy, miss opportunities, allow it’s melody to lull me into complacence.

Every minute I listen to the sounds of our world without assigning virtue to a single one, gaze at the place where evening sky meets late summer treetops, and inhale deeply, I am the child standing at the center of an old-time wooden teeter totter, hands outstretched on either side, feet apart just so, striking perfect balance, calling out, “Look, I did it!”

I am most enamored of her face.

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