This is 28

I think a lot, maybe too much
About myself, about my world,
How my decisions now are shaping patterns
Like a woodworker and her chisel
Chipping, chipping, chipping
Creating the contours of my life.

I debate between here or there, this and that
Wondering what role God plays in the whole experiment.
Wondering if he plays any at all.
More convinced all the time that the theoretical
Whats and wheres
Consuming my imagination
Matter far less than
The who and the how.

I celebrate my friends' and acquaintances' lives
As they are portrayed to me from afar.
They seem more cohesive and purposeful than my own stumbles forward.
Yet I know all too well the disparity between my own flesh and my screen.

I listen to Appalachian lullabies
Wrapped in a quilt in a wooden cabin
Drinking tea. Snowflakes
Swirling endlessly outside these walls.

I give thanks
For friends who are family
Who share dreams and home
In sharing their children's cuddles and kisses
They give more than they could know.

I learn to let go of dreams
And create new ones
Yet this time with a looser grasp
Time seems less forever than before

I wonder how much say I have in it all.
Or if my will is nothing more than an illusion.
But if not my will, than what?
But if not me, than who?
Who's creating this life?