Silly Springtime Thoughts

With an increasing frequency, I endure periods in which I profusely question myself. Most commonly I question (more accurately: second-guess) my habits, my vices, my thinking patterns, or my actions. It is strange to separate yourself from attributes that could make up "you" in search of a more succinct commonality, and it is probably futile. I refuse to believe that my anxious tendencies or my indulgent smoking or a mistake or two make up who I am, but simultaneously wonder: what else am I defined by? In times such as this when my mind feels bogged down and twisted up, I go to loved ones who reflect who I am back at me. Additionally, I find some solace in a written word or two.   

The Gardener by Mary Oliver

Have I lived enough?

Have I loved enough?

Have I considered Right Action enough, have I come to any conclusions?

Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?

Have I endured loneliness with grace?

I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it.

Actually, I probably think too much.

Then I step out into the garden,

where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man,

is tending his children, the roses.