On (Not) Finishing

As I sit to write this post, I am already thinking about the day ahead. What needs to be done? The floor needs more work, and I've got some errands to run, and the kids need something to do, and . . . I guess I'd better finish this post quickly, so I can get on to the next thing that needs to be done!

Hmmm.

Does this sound familiar? We seem to be obsessed in western culture with finishing, with results, with filling our "bag of achievements" as fast as possible. We like closure. And that is perfectly normal, I think. But only to enjoy moments of completion, and finishing, and achievement, is a kind of addiction. The rush of pleasure that accompanies a "big moment" is too much to expect from every moment. The irritated "well I've gotten that done" that accompanies little completions (I've written all the bills, or I've done the laundry, or I've run today's errands) is not much of a way to live each moment either. Why can't we simply DO and BE rather than worrying about what we'll do next?

As I watched my daughter work on her floor yesterday, I learned patience again. She was trying to put each new board in the connecting track, learning how to balance the board and to keep it straight, how to work it so the seam softened enough for the board to snug up to the last row of boards, how to help me hammer each board into position after laying it flat. When she was working, I thought of each step, and the care and precision required. I thought of her excitement building as we put her new floor in, board by board. I watched her own patience as she started over again and again until she got it right. I was completely involved in the work of placing each board, from a new point of view. Looking back, I can see how significant my own labor is--not just in terms of finishing the project, but in terms of the state of mind that one cultivates when working on one board at a time. I understand that I was becoming impatient because I was becoming hurried, trying to finish each row--to finish the floor--rather than trying to lay each board well. And I can see that I am not as gentle with myself--with my mistakes, with the boards that don't quite snug in as well as I want them to, with the difficulties of levering end board into place against a crumbly drywall base--as I was with my daughter. And I should be! The work is good, and there's no hurry beyond the mental press I put on myself. I'll aim to be more like her when I get to work later today. One board at a time.