This summer, I’ve found myself saying, “I’m more tired than I’ve ever been,” and then moving on to discover new frontiers of exhaustion. Last night I hit the limit. While profoundly thankful that my daughter is on a (rapid) road to recovery, I’ve also used burned through energy resources to emergency resources to scrape-the-bottom-of-the-barrel resources. After being on the move more or less non-stop since June, I find myself in desperate need of a few days off.
When I’m cranky, anxious, or depressed, I know it’s time to turn the machine off and regroup. The trouble is that, like many Americans, I don’t actually know how to do recreation.
I’m in Rochester to stage a house for market. I walked into a bathroom last night, saw a crack in the plaster that needs to be fixed, and burst into tears. That’s no way to slay dragons!
So I’m lying here in bed this morning wondering how I can get myself fired up. The usual shopping and socializing doesn’t trip my trigger. Plein air painting with my former students would definitely help, but that requires scheduling (hint, hint) so is best left for later in the week.
And then I think about a note I sent myself on my cell phone right before leaving. “I’d better add that to my list,” I say, which then leads me to thinking about another person I have to call. Soon I have a half-dozen or so small tasks on a mental list (because who knows where the paper and pencils are around here) and I’m starting to smile and little puffs of smoke are coming out of my brain as it fires up.
Suddenly, I’m no longer dreading getting up, but am ready to bounce out of bed and call my pal Jennifer to get the phone numbers I need to make these calls.
I love lists. They’re my ladder to success.