The little maker of chaos just went off to go swimming at the rec center, so I ran upstairs to do a couple of things on my to-do list that were impossible to do with her underfoot. We have clothes that need to be sorted out. Some can be kept but most are destined for the Goodwill bag. I made good progress in a short amount of time, driven by the desperate need to actually finish something that I started.
Now....multiply this desperation by 4, 5, or 6 times. Think of the anxiety that the endless list of things to do creates. But I've been a compulsive maker of lists for my entire adult life. (adult refers to 18 and older, not necessarily any actual maturity on my part) I have the yard list. The home repair list. The home wish list with things like a whirlpool tub and gas stove on it. There's the self improvement list. The reading list. The travel and family visit list. The freaking health maintenance list. (glasses, skin that's been exposed to too much sun, teeth, various cancers, and a few I can't bear to write down) The list with things on it that I think will enhance my old age, whose hoofbeats I can already hear approaching.
Then there's that nagging daily bugaboo list: writing goals. I hear the ghosts in my head whispering, "Finish the damn book so we can get the hell out of your list-cluttered brain!"
But I have a bag of stuff for Goodwill and that's progress.
Now....multiply this desperation by 4, 5, or 6 times. Think of the anxiety that the endless list of things to do creates. But I've been a compulsive maker of lists for my entire adult life. (adult refers to 18 and older, not necessarily any actual maturity on my part) I have the yard list. The home repair list. The home wish list with things like a whirlpool tub and gas stove on it. There's the self improvement list. The reading list. The travel and family visit list. The freaking health maintenance list. (glasses, skin that's been exposed to too much sun, teeth, various cancers, and a few I can't bear to write down) The list with things on it that I think will enhance my old age, whose hoofbeats I can already hear approaching.
Then there's that nagging daily bugaboo list: writing goals. I hear the ghosts in my head whispering, "Finish the damn book so we can get the hell out of your list-cluttered brain!"
But I have a bag of stuff for Goodwill and that's progress.
A vulture. Not a crow.
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