Late last week I started to find my groove with my book-writing.
I had finally nailed the structure and bones of my work, something I had been juggling for months.
But I got it! I finally found a way to organize my thoughts and share what I have to share.
I was stoked.
So on Saturday I snuck into my writing studio/craft room to carve out a little writing time. I was ready to get to work.
And just then a small, seven-year old girl appeared in the doorway. Not missing a beat she bounded into the room and announced, "Mama, let's sort buttons together! Wouldn't that be fun?"
And I paused.
And I took a breath.
And I looked at the outline laid out before me and thought about the writing I wanted to do.
The words "presence and distraction," "play" and "connection" leaped off the page.
Yes. That. The very stuff of what I was writing was dancing into my experience to ask me how serious I was.
Was I serious?
And if so, about living it or writing about it?
I closed my computer.
"Yes, baby. Sorting buttons together would be so fun. There is nothing I'd rather do right now that this with you."
I meant it.
It was Saturday. It was time to sort buttons.
It was time to close the computer. There would be time to write later on.
I hugged her, kissed her head, and we set to work.
Later that night as we sat down to dinner we shared the sweet spot of our day, as we often do.
My sweet spot?
Yes. Of course it was.
And yes, it was Lupine's too.
Something I would have missed if I'd hurried along toward my own destination.
On my adult agenda.
And while I'll have many more opportunities to write, I'm not sure how many more Saturdays I'll get to spend sorting buttons with my girl.
Sorting buttons, it turns out, was the most important work before me.
This I know is true.