Dust If You Must
Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.
Rose Milligan lives in Lancaster, Lancashire, England.
How do you relate to the notion that life's most ordinary moments - "a flutter of snow, a shower of rain" - carry an urgency that no amount of tidying can answer, and what does it stir in you to sit with the truth that "this day will not come around again"? Can you share a personal story of a time when you set aside what felt obligatory or responsible to follow something more alive in you - a river, a friend, a half-formed idea - and what that choice revealed about what you actually value? What helps you stay close to the difference between want and need, so that the life you are tending is the one you actually want to have lived?
