Sometimes, at the end of the weekend, when the advent of Monday morning begins to steal the last few hours of Sunday evening, I feel the weight of my accumulated days dragging at me. I lie down to sleep fighting the urge to count the remaining weeks in the calendar year, as if the fear of another December come and gone will lend some urgency to my choices.
I can stave off this dread by making some sort of vaguely-defined meaningful “progress” on one of the creative projects by which I have come to measure my own self-worth. Even writing this post indicates a final desperate attempt to end the weekend on a higher note—to brand the fading memory of Sunday with a sense of accomplishment rather than futility.
“Teach me to number my days.” The more I internalize this, the better I get at choosing to spend my time in ways that will make me feel hopeful, empowered, and alive.