It's busy right now.
Your days feel short and you're getting buried beneath your list of things to do.
And soon it's easier to get lost in what should be instead of what could be.
That to-do list isn't gonna to-do itself, you know.
And so you tick off a few items.
You make progress.
And it's slow.
And then you look outside.
And it is not a perfect day.
It's wet. And chilly.
(Or maybe for you it's the city. Or the heat. Or the snow.)
You grab your boots and rain – or snow or city or whatever – be damned, you get out there.
You get in it.
And out there it's messy.
And you never know if you'll earn yourself an entire bonus laundry just because you got out there.
And you know that your to-do list will be waiting when you come home.
But you go anyway.
And then you're in it.
And everything begins to shift.
Because even if you stall or make excuses or act busy, when you finally get there you always wonder what took you so long.
Because this is where you belong.
Where you see magic everywhere you look.
In the fog, the clouds, the hills, the mouse holes.
(Or the skyline. The street lights. This world you call home.)
In the dance of the dried leaves in the wind and the feel of the mist on your cheeks.
And you didn't know that the rain left gems glinting on every blade of grass.
And you didn't know how unearthly the quiet was until you closed the door behind you and heard your boots squish upon the soft, wet earth.
And you didn't know where the birds were roosting, silent in the trees with their feathers puffed against the cold.
But mostly you didn't know how deeply your soul needed out.
Until you got there.
And yes, there will be more mud than you were expecting.
But you adapt.
You get dirty and wet and cold.
You play games and hold hands are breathe more deeply than a moment before.
Because now you're out.
You're in it.
And you can feel everyone coming alive once more.
There's no going back.
So what are you doing in here?
Get out there.
Get in it.
There's still time.