The wasted days

Someday, said Cheryl Strayed (in so many words), you will see that the wasted days were never truly wasted. That all the days of loafing in the end will add up to something.

These words were salve to me last year when I discovered them, freelancing, shaky, unmoored. I absorbed them fully, let them nest in my palms and have carried them close to my chest like prayer beads ever since. 

The wasted days will add up to something. The moments of circling around are not repetition; they are my spiraling journey upward.

Does the notion of wasted time terrify you? Does the ticking of the clock haunt you like it haunts me? 

And what if we chose to look mortality in the face, leaned into the Not Enoughness of our idle moments, our rudderless work, our ambling days and weeks and years. What if the dream of Becoming Somebody slipped from our fingers just like we always feared?

What if that was okay?