please, sir... I want some more.

It's always so easy to look at other people and recognize that they are workaholics.

Never mind that in addition to a full-time job as a high school teacher, I am also currently working on a freelance film writing project for Focul Point productions (with more to come, including possibly some work as an interviewer). Never mind that for some reason I committed myself to writing a short story a week for an entire year. Never mind that I am on page 77 (out of 110) of the the rough draft for my first feature-length screenplay, or that I am trying to learn how to use Final Cut Pro, play the ukulele, and become a more proficient photographer.

What matters is that I would also like to learn to play the piano and develop a regular weight training and exercise program for myself, while maintaining loose contact with dozens of remote friends and close contact with a few local ones. What matters is that given all the time I have to spend on frivolities like cooking, cleaning, eating and sleeping; and the fact that I have a three-year-old who requires near-constant attention when I have him (which is awesome, by the way)... well, there just isn't enough time. 

I'm not a workaholic, I've just been handed a clock with too few minutes on it. 

I get anxious about this sometimes. I think, "live is big and beautiful and wonderful. There is so much to do and experience and contribute and love - what if I miss something?" This anxiety drives me to put down my writing and my son and my ukulele and my final cut pro, and to just sort of meander. It grows into fear, and before I know it the weight of my own mortality is pressing down upon me. I become aware, suddenly, of the miles and miles of atmosphere stacked high above my head. 

Sometimes, though, when I am afraid, I remember that I don't have to be. I grasp onto that faith I hold, the hope that this, now - while amazing - is not the end. That death is not the final word. That I can rest, occasionally, without being afraid of lost moments - lost days - lost life.

Oh, death... where is your sting? It is everywhere, and I am stung. 

Stung, but free.