Wasting time
At any given moment almost every day of late there is a litany of things I think I should be doing running on an endless loop in my head.
I should be ...
cleaning up the clutter before we move
packing the items we plan to move ourselves
making a list of McKenna’s things to transfer to the new house before move day
checking out Farewell Bend and every other local park that’s close to where we’re living now but won’t be once we move
reaching out to meet and make plans with people
walking the nearby river trail
scheduling that starlight canoe excursion I promised myself for my birthday
researching stand-up paddle boarding
making a pedicure appointment
doing something, anything, related to the B&B business
... and on and on and on.
The truth is I don't want to do any of those things. Actually, that's not entirely true. I do want to do those things; I just don't want to do them now. I know all of these things will be there tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Yet I feel the pressure of the imagined fear that time is a-wastin'.
Ironically, right now the only thing I want to do is waste time reading Ruth Reichl's My Kitchen Year. It is a comforting read in only the way she can write a memoir/cookbook. That the book chronicles Ms. Reichl's difficult year after Gourmet folded brings me even more comfort, because her struggle then reminds me of my struggle now: A woman trying to find her place and her sense of self and purpose while creating a new life from the ashes of her old one.
So here I sit reading and sipping a cup of coffee. Is it really wasting time if it soothes my soul?
