It's that time of year again.
The finishing season. Finishing school. Finishing sports and ballet and art. We're finishing. We've got end-of-grade testing and tournaments. Recitals and gallery shows. We are anxious to finish. Anxious for summer. For a break.
But finishing is hard and busy work. The week is planned to the minute. So of course, in that typical life way, the van needed a tire replaced. I don't have time to replace tires. I don't have time for a blow-out either. (Changing tires is one of the things I'll add to the list of things to learn to do on my own, later. I don't have time right now.) But a nice man at church pointed out that the white showing through the tires was a sure sign of an impending blow-out. So I begrudgingly took the car to the mechanic and, of course, it was going to take all morning. I did everything I could from home. Then I started pacing. I'm not in a good spot in life for pacing. If I pace I start to think about how I want to be with my sister to comfort her in a hard time. Or I go to the angry or sad place of my current lonely, life-altering predicament. Pacing is no good, not only for my mind but also because I have so many errands to run to help with the finishing.
Just as I was getting good and worked up, it started misting. I love mist. I stopped to watch as it drizzled slowly down the windows. That's when the mechanic called to say the van was ready. For a minute, I contemplating calling a friend for a ride. Then I grabbed my purse and left. I walked. I walked in the mist until I was soaked through and the pacing had melted away. It was gray and cool, and I'm sure I looked a bit crazy. But it was so wonderfully perfect.
Now I can finish the finishing with a properly fitted vehicle. And a properly misted soul.
