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?