Later...

It's so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day events that come along with having a family, a day job, and other commitments that it's all too easy to put "writing" on the back burner.

"I'll get to it when I have more time..." or "I'll work on it this weekend...next week...next month...next summer"--but it's always "later."

It's not so much a matter of procrastination or avoidance (although my husband might argue otherwise); it's more due to how I prioritize my time. How, though, do I tell my students that I'll grade their papers "later"? How do I tell my husband or friends that I'll spend time with them "later"? I have a house full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, eight classes of bright and eager students waiting to be taught, a gorgeous and loving husband waiting to spend time with me...and a nasty cold that's been stalking me for days. Those types of things don't wait for later.

It occurred to me today, though, that if I needed to go to the doctor every day at noon for an hour in order to get a treatment that would keep me alive, I would make the time to go. Of course, students, supervisors, and husbands all might be a bit more understanding of being shuffled to the side for a little while under those circumstances, but it isn't really all that different.

Life is about quality: finding those things, people, and pastimes that make you feel happy, loved, and valued, and committing yourself to ideas and ideals that make you feel like you're engaged in an ethical and meaningful existence. So isn't my mental well-being as crucial as my physical well-being? If taking time to write everyday makes my life more meaningful and satisfying, if it helps me to feel like I'm moving forward and doing something that matters very much to me, is it really so much different from that hypothetical daily doctor's appointment?

Life is too short to push those things that we do for ourselves--those things that we do to make ourselves happy, that make our lives more meaningful--until later. After all, what if later never comes? If I only had one day to live, would I look back over my life and wish I had graded more papers? Washed more dishes? Unpacked more boxes? Not likely. I may, though, look back and regret those dreams I left unpursued, those goals I constantly pushed aside, always, invariably, perpetually waiting for later.