With the daughter’s wedding only 22 days away (she announces the count daily after the young lovers tear another link off their respective paper chains during phone calls), life is a tidal wave of urgent tasks to be completed. Yesterday I crested one of the biggest waves of remaining tasks and gratefully floated down the far side, thinking to myself, “Maybe I can take more than a metaphorical dip in the water tomorrow. Maybe I can go to the pool.”
But no.
A second tyrant, which has been taunting me every morning for the past week, reared it’s ugly head. Just across the fence, the cherries on our neighbor’s tree ripened to a juicy pickable red. My inner voice shouted the truth. There is no time for picking cherries. Day after day I listened to the voice, and day after day I ignored the tempting little red devils.
Until the robins started picking the tiny gems and throwing them on our driveway. That was too much. I marched into the house, called the neighbor, and left a message requesting permission to pick the cherries before the birds got them all. Last night, he stopped by and said, “Go ahead.”
Once again, the tyranny of the urgent swept me away. No way were the birds going to get all the cherries! I marched to the tree, picked a bucketful, pitted the suckers and froze two quarts of cherries before bedtime. This morning, I repeated the whole schpeel and froze five more quarts, cresting the wave at about noon. Which means the rest of my work probably won’t get done in time for a trip to the pool.
The worst thing is, the tree’s still full of cherries, too far up for this chicken to reach with a stepladder. So for the next few mornings, the birds will still bomb our driveway, the sparkling red devils will continue to their merciless taunt, and my inner voice will continue to shout the truth. There is no time to pick more cherries. The mother of the bride doesn’t need a broken leg. Go to the swimming pool instead.
Tomorrow, I’ll close my eyes when I walk by the cherry tree. And if it doesn’t rain, I’m listening to my inner voice. See you at the pool.
