a tiny question

Too much, maybe not enough, of my day is spent thinking about how others are living, why I have so blasted much, what it all means and what to do about it. Gratitude, yes, to the point of it almost hurting and tipping me over into a guilty puddle of inert mush .

And then my little ship turns back towards that whole web of Woman, of what and how I am, what to become, what any and all of it means. Of not wanting and not needing angry, of knowing I have more, but feeling a missing limb, a missing mother. Where is She? Does She not care? Is She not allowed? Do we have it all wrong? Do I aspire to become Her-- uninvolved, unknown, too sacred?

Where are they?

Or should I just focus on the task at hand, the students and mail and melty snow mountains.