Building a Mystery

I've been on a Sarah McLachlan kick since I "discovered" her Christmas cd in Starbuck two months ago. I'm a little late, I know. I wait until Sunday mornings to prepare esl lessons for the UTDallas graduate students from China who visit our church to learn about American culture and practise their English. The editors at Relief hyperventilate as I stall and reread submissions up to the very last possible minute. And two days ago, I dimantled the cone-shaped fire hazard occupying the tv stand. While the girls lay prone on the carpeted floor watching reruns of Curious George, the four foot tree I'd bought on my way home from work late one December night had dried to a crispy version of last summer's drought. So it wouldn't disentegrate into the carpet, I lifted the tree, light as straw, out the back door before removing the lights. The stubble on the concrete, a barren crop circle. A fact of gravity and lack of water.

I have a problem with procrastination. It is a confession I make with no real knowledge of how to change or if I should. Procrastination is a fact in my life and why is the mystery. The when of my memories is as mysterious as the acts themselves. While others work to build a mystery, I follow the winds of change. It's a condition abhorant to proverbial wisdom. I think that wisdom calls it sloth. Which windows of opportunity have I missed while my tree dried and the ornaments collected dust?