I was sitting in my office, researching the magazine’s archives. And online chatting with my boss about the archive project and our ideas for it. And coordinating online garage sale stuff with several people via Facebook and text. And trying to remember the blog post that was coursing through my head faster than I had time to write it. And the phone was ringing. And my sweet, sweet daughter, off from school due to a professional development day, was bouncing at my elbow, enthusiastically soliciting my help in making paper snowflakes while simultaneously playing a loud and exuberant game of Pontius Pilate alliterations.
And the pile on my desk, and the millions of tabs and programs open, and the disastrous mess of half-made dinner and half-done sorting and end-of-the-week-too-busy-to-clean household mess were clamoring, wailing for my attention.
It was as though everyone and everything was screaming, screaming, screaming for a piece of me.
I wanted to scream myself. And hide.
On the way home from bringing the Maiden to theater rehearsal–yep, one more thing that day–I needed a break. I headed over to the grocery store to buy a gossip magazine and junk food. Oh yes I did.
But then as I headed for the treat aisle, I passed by a display of paper bags. Part of the grocer’s campaign to give back to the local community, the bags were filled with canned goods and were labeled simply, “This could be someone’s next meal.” They were $10.
I grabbed a bag and walked to the checkout.
Everything and everyone wanted a piece of me that day.
But somewhere out there, someone needed it.