Yesterday was the culmination of a big project. In the process, I’ve gathered tons of related detritus around me. Items and notes that were vital to have close at hand. Bits of sentimental whimsy intended to keep me boosted, focused and happy. The edges of the event island have piled higher and higher with flotsam and foam containing the rest of life, but the ‘special event’ breakwater has kept it all at bay.
On Transition Day, the breakwater breaks. There’s no longer any excuse for not attending to these urgent matters. The sheer volume that has accumulated is startling only in contrast with my now extinct ability to ignore how it grew while I chose not to watch.
Frequently, there’s a sense of depression, despair and guilt. A sense of loss and lack of purpose coupled with the amazing weight of accumulated responsibilities that will no longer sit quietly in the dark. The pounding and scratching on the closet doors of my brain has reached a fever pitch. These tasks are crawling onto the shore of my event island like wet, musty, zombies.
The temptation is to dive right in and try to deal with this mess. On Transition Day, I must not give in. I must be strong. I must wield my psychic chainsaw. The real, true, best course of action is physical. It’s time to clean house. Remove the physical detritus first. Allow the movement to refocus my brain. Less thinking is good here.
The only good brain indulgence is a sense of humor. mmm… brainz….
Feeling oddly good about it all – check. Thinking too much about it – nope.
Time to clean my desk.
Susan Scot Fry
Update… Yeah, that was good. I forgot one vital aspect of Transition Day. Sleep.