By Emily Pukuma

I am untelling
the lie
that says
creativity is only for the creatures
that have
bested the beast of busyness.

I am unchecking
the box
that reads
"accomplish all tasks
to earn your right to write,
your right to rest"

I am untrippping
the guilt
that leaches onto my heart
that removes the 'cans,'
and replaces them with 'shoulds'
of someone else's choosing,
rendering my mind
resentful and resistant
to the joy all around me,
the possibilities prodding me
the opportunities opening up before me

I am writing
beside
the toy-scattered floor.
I am writing
among
the overflowing loads of laundry.
I am writing
over
the dirty dishes that pile and plead for attention.

I am reading
despite the demands begging.

I am listening
not
to the to-do list mounting.

I am
seeking consumption
that sparks intrigue
that speaks solace
that garners gratitude

that sets my soul to flight

I am setting aside
the scrolling that sours
and lining up
with intentionality
the tools and resources
that fill the heart and soul and mind
with surety in the spaces that set me apart.

I am filling my pages
with works of wonder
without plan or purpose or profit,
but only playfulness and peace

I am freeing the outward expectations
that take my time,
belittle my babble,
rein in my resolve.

I am learning
to leave them
buried deep,
burned like barbecue,
broken like brittle bone.

Let it be known,
I am a work
in progress.
I always will be.

But
when I forget
where joy jumpstarts,
when I can't shake
pain plowing through me,
when the devil
seems to have taken hold
of my heart,

I know
God has not left me.

He is
guiding me
greeting me
guaranteeing me
my unearned, unexpected, uncontested
salvation.

So I can write and rest
assured
that all things
are made right
with Him,
in Him,
through Him.

All other expectations
fall away
forgotten and forfeited
to the task of
realizing my relationship
with my maker.

With pen to page
I rejoice
and recount
all the blessings abounding.