I tell myself to do just one thing. Put clothes on. Eat something. Open up my computer and write a sentence, a word. One thing. Just one.
Then I think of how it will compound. How one thing leads to another and that’s how everything gets built. I lose track quickly of how important just focusing on the first step is. I start to zoom in on how all those little pieces will join together to make something I deem worthwhile. Then I’m not thinking about each individual part anymore. I’m thinking about the entire lifespan of the thing. Seeing the tree in the seed.
But there are seeds that never become trees at all. And trees that never soar above me. Never make me feel safe and small and powerful and insignificant all at once. Trees that turn into tables or door frames. Paper for notebooks. Trees that burn in fires. That live high in mountains, where the air is thin, and put in everything they can, but never get over three feet tall.
And I’m reminded not to get too caught up in the building. Not to cling too hard to the idea that one thing always becomes another and another. Or that it always needs to. Sometimes one thing is just that. You write one sentence and then you curl up on the floor and sob for the rest of the day. And that’s okay.
You don’t have to get bogged down by the bigness of the possibility. Not every word has to be part of the next great American novel. Not every day has to be dripping with productivity. Has to have tangible accomplishments to point to.
Not every seed exists to become towering.