It’s 32°F right now outside my window. Yesterday, it was 81°. Twenty-four hours ago I was wearing shorts and working in my garden; today it started snowing. I know it’s nothing like the shit the Northeast is having to endure, but jeez, I wish spring would just get here already. I’m hanging on, trying to keep myself from falling into the abyss of depression I can never seem to avoid in winter, but I need the sun to come back soon. If I lived in the North, I’d have to be medicated. I’m sure of it.
All I want to do is go back to sleep. Wake me up in May.
Yesterday was spent catching up. On submissions, which had been stacking up for two weeks; on grading my kids’ school work (ditto); and on a thousand other projects I have going at any one time. Growing summer vegetables from seed. Sorting and tagging our mp3 collection. Revising fiction. Finishing the horse paddock. House repairs. Editing the thesis.
Seriously, I could go on and on. Ad nauseum. The problem is, I never know when to stop, and just finish what I’m working on. I have this theory, or habit, or whatever you want to call it, where I keep myself excited and engaged with the world by adding more stuff to do. I spend my days checking off little subtasks that never seem to add up to any one big thing. Or maybe they do, and I’m just so immersed in the ‘doing’ of it that I never take the time to come up for air.
I read somewhere that true gardeners never actually take the time to enjoy their own garden; when they look around all they can see are the flaws, the unfinished beds, the weeding that’s been neglected. I think it’s a very accurate description of my gardening style, but also my life in general.