Yesterday I had very little planned. No appointments, no errands to run. I woke up determined to clear my plate by tackling the many miscellaneous items gumming up my to-do list.
Then my feet hit the floor and I remembered, my plate is heavy and spilling over, heaping and piled high. With extra gravy.
I know without a doubt that I will never completely catch up with all the things I could do and should do. Depending on the time of day (or wind direction or moon phase), I sometimes feel fine with this fact… but other times I feel totally immobilized, like cement has hardened around my ankles. The short term tasks and the long term goals. The size of it all, the weight of the plate. It’s too much.
If only I could accept that I’m not a “lick the plate clean” kind of girl and that there’s comfort and familiarity in sticky, stuck-on stuff. What truly needs to get done, gets done. For the most part.
What would I do with a clean plate anyway? Do I swap it for another one? Bigger, smaller, more decorative? And since my plate is a metaphor for life (surprise!), what would that mean? Do I stare at the clean plate, appreciate it for a moment and then start filling it again because an empty plate is a plate not reaching its plate potential.
Because you were wondering, I spent yesterday returning emails and putting things away (my primary job after “keep the kids alive”). I tried my best to scrape at the most baked on, caked on items, but then I also read books with Bea and shopped for dehumidifiers on line. (I’m not going to buy a dehumidifier on line. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.) And I may have read an article or three on the anniversary of the OJ Simpson trial. Has it really been twenty years?
When I went to bed last night, my plate was still full. A full plate is a full life, I guess. And who doesn’t like extra gravy?