Backing In
There’s a kind of stress that builds not from any single heavy moment, but from the repeated tug of small, unresolved things.
The dish left in the sink.
The email half-written.
The conversation that didn’t end cleanly.
The sandwich not made.
The shirt not laid out.
The sense of being just a little behind — again.
And when the pace quickens — when I’m rushing to leave, to finish, to remember — my thoughts start to loop.
Not forward, but in circles.
The unfinished things call louder.
The moment feels thinner.
I stretch like taffy, pulled between what’s next and what I haven’t quite done yet.
But sometimes, when there’s time — or when I make it — I can pause.
I can turn the car around.
Not metaphorically, but literally.
I can back into the garage.
It seems like a small thing, backing in rather than pulling in nose first. But the next morning, when I step into the car and all I have to do is drive forward — I feel it.
Ease.
Momentum without friction.
The gift of foresight given by the person I was the night before.
So maybe it’s not just the garage.
Maybe it’s the sandwich, made ahead.
The shirt, already chosen.
The thought, written down instead of left circling.
The goodbye, said completely.
The light left on at the door.
These are not chores.
They are offerings.
To the self that wakes up tomorrow,
to the moment that begins clean,
to the heart that deserves softness
rather than stress.
So I back in.
And the day — when it comes — meets me facing forward.
Spiritual Gravity 