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With Girl Scouts on Wednesdays, Thursdays seem a good day for writing; I was thinking in the car coming home this morning that perhaps I hear my own voice better in the quiet space after a number of busy days than I do when the quiet has gone on a while. This week has certainly thus far delivered the busy days; I ran errands, went to meetings, socialised more than my wont, arranged & carried out a playdate for my smol son, unpacked some boxes, and prepped and ran Girl Scouts. Today I must organise book order fliers before it is time to pick up, and more importantly I must remember to bring them with me to give to the teacher, but the first part of this is a simple task which can be done while listening to my new Spotify discovery playlist, so on the whole the day is open to my priorities.
And what are they? I think I must attack the pile of boxes in my bedroom; it is a large room, and the first time we wanted to have a proper party here (for smol daughter's birthday a year ago) the way that we got the house ready for it was to move all of the boxes leftover from our move into the bedroom, where they formed an intimidating hypercube of boxes which the cats and sometimes the children like to explore. Over time it has accumulated more objects and become more precarious and harder to tackle, so despite good intentions I keep ignoring it -- but yesterday I spent half an hour unsuccessfully looking for my art paper (there is the seed of another post in that, my habit of buying art supplies because they are beautiful and then never using them), and I could not find it, and I have just had enough of these boxes. The difficulty, of course, is that once I remove objects from boxes I must do something with them, and while some of them are easily donated or thrown away, many of them must be put somewhere and the figuring out where seems to take a lot of energy and mental focus.
In shorter words: unpacking is hard, which is why I have not finished doing this despite having moved two years ago.
I am going to tackle the book order fliers, and then perhaps I will write more. I am definitely feeling that trough of 'my daily details are so dull, I say the same things every time, why am I writing this down?' but the answer is -- it gives me pleasure to write it down, even when it is the same sort of thing every time, just as it gives me pleasure to do the same things over and again. I like routines and rhythm, I like to listen to music and type and read and think, and I push back against whatever historical shame arises when I reveal this in the doing.
And what are they? I think I must attack the pile of boxes in my bedroom; it is a large room, and the first time we wanted to have a proper party here (for smol daughter's birthday a year ago) the way that we got the house ready for it was to move all of the boxes leftover from our move into the bedroom, where they formed an intimidating hypercube of boxes which the cats and sometimes the children like to explore. Over time it has accumulated more objects and become more precarious and harder to tackle, so despite good intentions I keep ignoring it -- but yesterday I spent half an hour unsuccessfully looking for my art paper (there is the seed of another post in that, my habit of buying art supplies because they are beautiful and then never using them), and I could not find it, and I have just had enough of these boxes. The difficulty, of course, is that once I remove objects from boxes I must do something with them, and while some of them are easily donated or thrown away, many of them must be put somewhere and the figuring out where seems to take a lot of energy and mental focus.
In shorter words: unpacking is hard, which is why I have not finished doing this despite having moved two years ago.
I am going to tackle the book order fliers, and then perhaps I will write more. I am definitely feeling that trough of 'my daily details are so dull, I say the same things every time, why am I writing this down?' but the answer is -- it gives me pleasure to write it down, even when it is the same sort of thing every time, just as it gives me pleasure to do the same things over and again. I like routines and rhythm, I like to listen to music and type and read and think, and I push back against whatever historical shame arises when I reveal this in the doing.
