I'm sitting here right now reading people's blogs and trying to catch up with people's lives. A "To Do" list sits by its lonesome on my desktop, with things that would keep me busy for at least two weeks if I did nothing else. Meanwhile, a little girl who just turned 8 last week lies on her back next to me. She is mouthing the words to Defying Gravity and a word comes out accidentally every now in then in a whisper. Her mother got her a book yesterday all about the making of Wicked, and her mind has been on nothing else since (except last night briefly for our group reading of the Chronicles of Narnia). I can't help envying her simplicity. Why don't I get excited about little things like that any more? Why don't I get swept away by the amazingness of life and love and grace that is so much grander than any song from a musical? Am I that much older and wiser that I can't justify total enthrallment with something when a to do list looms over my head?
Maybe I should add something enthralling to my to do list. Maybe I should make myself enthralled about my to do list. Maybe I should scrap to do lists altogether and just do things as they come up and hope I don't forget anything important. Maybe I should just sit down and do the to do list and then let myself get enthralled about something. Since I can't figure out what to do, I'm writing this, which isn't all that enthralling and isn't on my to do list. There's something joyous about that, too, I think.