I’ve had a long day. I worked from 8:30am to 6:30pm, and by the end of my work day I was already exhausted. Now it’s 10:00 at night and I’ve been assembling this damned Ikea bed for the past two hours.

I grumble as I contort myself to screw in a Philips-head screw with a flathead screwdriver because we lost our grumble grumble Philips-head screwdriver.

“Is there a way you could make this fun?” Kyeli asks me.

“Grumble grumble,” I reply, annoyed. It’s not fun because I don’t want to be assembling this bed. I want to be done working for the day. I want to be playing Fez or reading my book or –

Wait a second. What’s the definition of halfhearted? Wishing you were somewhere other than where you are.

And what’s the definition of wholehearted? Choosing to be exactly where you are.

What am I choosing? I’ve already committed to assembling the bed, so my only two options are:

1. Assemble the bed and wish I could be doing something else (the halfhearted option)
2. Assemble the bed wholeheartedly

Why am I choosing #1 instead of #2? What do I get out of it? Hmm. I get a “poor me” feeling. I want sympathy, or pity, or for someone to rescue me from having to do all this work I don’t want to do.

Nobody’s going to rescue me. I can either assemble the bed and be annoyed, or assemble the bed and be happy. The choice is up to me.

I let go.

I turn the next screw, and smile.

This is what a wholehearted life looks like.

It’s not all quitting your day job and gallivanting across the country. It’s assembling Ikea beds with peacefulness instead of grumpiness. It’s letting go of judging others harshly when they spell “a lot” as one word. It’s communicating with compassion instead of with a need to be right.

It’s forgetting to be wholehearted.

And it’s remembering.