Princessy, is what it feels like. Walking aimlessly across the house, thinking: what shall I pick up to do? What if “book” or Real Simple is what I pick up to do, and not “blog post” or “shoe repair”? That would be pleasant. That would fit with another morning of thumbs-on-sinuses, though I feel squirrely contemplating it. Squirrely ≠ pleasant rest, but…

There’s maybe an hour, or an hour and a half, before M-my-trainer arrives. What fits in an hour? How much do I care if I’m interrupted? This last question is a struggle for a brain thickened by thumbs-on-sinuses.

(Process check: (1) I was weary last night and didn’t fully engage in the 15 of my 10/15 practice. (2) I believe I’m again in need of a ‘random crap’ collection list, where I dump a lot of small-to-middling tasks out of my head and over to where I can glance at them. Storing items in my head rarely serves me.)

I drift into the kitchen doorway, look at the skillet of congealed grease that I ignored last night. I think, “I wrote a poem about this. While wearing this same sweatshirt.”

And… somehow I drift into cleaning the pan. As I reach the step of washing the skillet with soap, my spirit lightens, and all work seems easy to reach. If I whistled, I would be whistling, but instead I’m smiling and admiring the fragrance included with the dish soap.

 

If I could just distill this…
If I could capture the steps, and repeat them…

If feelings (and their moods) were logical, we’d just call them reasons and be done with them.

I’m going to go fold the sheets.