It has been quite busy, as busy season ramps up. It is only this busy for a little over a quarter out of every year where I get to experience what some people “submit” themselves to everyday of the year. All days are not like this, but the other morning I arrived to work at 7:30 a.m. and did not leave until after 9 p.m. I started to feel a drag, like a warped record spinning slowly on the turntable, so I thought, I better call it a night. It’s not uncommon for some of the others to stay until midnight and beyond when the deadline nears, but I have not stayed until those wee hours. A co-worker and I chatted a bit and I said how I couldn’t do this all the time like some workers do—at least not office type jobs—working long, long days, ageing quickly, showing signs of not taking care of oneself. I realize there are some people that may have to carry this type of lifestyle, but for those that are after the money, I just don’t think it’s worth it. It feels that people have learned to live outside of their means. Life can be so much simpler, richer with the naturally intrinsic that we have available to us. But, somehow, we need all kinds to be able to see what’s out there and make our own choices of how we’d like to live.

When I did get home, I thought to myself, “Is this how it feels to get home with so little time for much of anything, only to wake up and do it all over again?” I kept the television off and readied for bed, wrote an “evening page” just to keep that pen going, and read as much as my eyes would allow before they began slumping down. I was happy just reading my few pages and very happy I still made time to write. Not all days will be this long, but there will be others and it makes me appreciate my normally slow pace and there is also the rush and excitement of getting things done and of being a team and riding the busy season wave as it ebbs and flows—for each quarter of the year, we do what we need to do to get the job done—people count on us—and it feels good. Even if it’s just a little something, it’s something.

Yesterday when I got out of the shower, I quickly dried off, and headed straight for my notebook and penned my St. Patrick’s day blog. I didn’t have time to type it up and post it and it still sits in my notebook, but I appreciated that my thoughts were doing what they often do in the shower, they were relaxed—the shower allows me to be that “receptor” and everything seems to flow out in there with the steam and the mist and the wonderful pale yellow walls, like a Spring of freesia that wraps itself around me.

And while I was at work yesterday, I thought I’d stay a couple more hours and needed a “pick-me up.” I headed over to the bakery and decided I’d get a Mocha instead of my usual latte and when I walked through the door, I waited patiently eyeballing the goods that were left—they bake fresh everyday—no croissants, shucks. There was another lady ahead of me being helped. She was waiting for her cake. The cashier began to ring her up and the lady said, “The mocha’s not mine, but I’ll pay for it.” I heard this and thought, Oh my goodness, is she talking about my Mocha? She turned to me and said, “I’m buying your Mocha for you.” I said, “Are you sure…Thank you.”

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” She said.

I felt happy at the gesture and was very thankful that this kind woman decided to treat me. As she picked up her cake box to exit, saying goodbye to the gals, I looked at her and said thank you again and smiled. All the while, I was thinking to myself, I can’t wait to do the same for someone soon—and I also thought of the soap man.