My life is generally a series of postcards I don't want to leave.

Take today. I'm sitting at my computer, sunny day, leafy woods out the window behind my silhouette,  revising a story I want to read at our critique meeting.  I'm getting into the flow, but running out of time. I pull myself away before I'm really done...

Next scene, in front of the TV, Nike capris, tee-shirt, music videos on, working out. Feels great to take some deep breaths, engage my muscles, disperse some shoulder tension after curling over the computer. Wish I could keep at this longer, but the meeting time is fast approaching...

I'm in my room tossing the clothes I'm going to wear on one end of the bed when my teenage son, in summer mode, wanders in and lounges across the rest of the bed. This indicates he's free for some chat time with Mom.  This doesn't happen often these days; I certainly don't want to race away from this scene. I take a minute or two to hear what he's up to, tell him where I'm headed, and then, sooner than I want to, disappear into the bathroom to shower and get ready for my meeting.

It's one of our members birthday's today. I've made a carrot cake, another brings a card, the member who's hosting us has a lovely fruit salad out on her center island, with tea and lemonade, and gold-rimmed china. Luxurious. We chat, cutting it off too soon because we also want to critique, and all have family obligations before the afternoon is finished. We get through most of us, and then I have to leave to go to a physical therapy appointment with my son. I'm missing the last member's reading, the next part of a story we haven't heard an installment of lately. I want to hear it...but out the door I head.  

And so it goes. The result of my not being able to step out of one scene and into the next is, I'm often late. I don't like this. As it's happening again, to try and motivate myself, I tell myself this is selfish, the message you give is that whatever you've got going on is more important than whatever event you're supposed to be attending. But this doesn't motivate me well, perhaps because it doesn't ring true.  Am I "in denial"? Maybe. But this repetitive action of mine feels like it stems from something different. A youngest child's fear that she's going to miss something if she leaves? An adult's wisdom that I will never pass through this exact moment again? An immature ability to choose and prioritize? (I want to do it all!) Or some mixture of the three.

In my postcard scenes, I may not always Wish You Were Here. But I can tell you, I Wish I Was There closer to the time I was supposed to be all the time!