I’ve had a busy week and finally feel like I can catch my breath—or, more accurately, breathe. Clearing things off my virtual and physical desk helped, as did tidying my office and tending to my overflowing email inbox. (Apologies to those I’ve been tardy in responding to.)
This morning, the sun is shining, the washer and dryer are humming with their Friday loads, and the dishwasher is beeping to let me know it’s finished its cycle. FedEx just delivered a package. Molly is snoozing in her bed beside my desk while I tend to things at my desk. Gerry and I have plans for something simple and sweet this afternoon. Life is good.
I have been pondering why I’ve felt overwhelmed of late, remembering when I didn’t feel this way, and asking myself why I get caught up in this sense of feeling overloaded so often. I underestimate my capacity, for one thing. I wrote about plates not long ago. The proportion of my plate is personal—there’s no right or wrong size—and the amount of weight mine can hold has diminished in recent years. Or, said better, the weight I choose to carry is less than it used to be. I can carry big, heavy plates—I’ve balanced platters at times—but I no longer want to. I’m happier with a cup of tea or coffee and a small saucer. I keep forgetting that.
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It’s afternoon now. Gerry and I are just home from a jaunt downtown. I renewed my passport, we stopped in at a local coffee shop for a sweet treat and a cup of coffee, and I bought a pair of Blundstone boots at a store where, in all likelihood, my mom bought my first pair of shoes. Funny that.
Gerry has taken Miss Molly out for a short walk in the sunshine now. I’m finishing up this post and following up on messages that came in while we were out. All in all, it’s turning out to be a fine Friday.
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