A day is the vacuum that piddly tasks, by nature, abhor. The real myth, I guess, is the one that suggests we should actually accomplish something of note each day. A silly idea I want to and should dump.
It’s worth noticing that life can be just about, for example, eating. There’s a goodly bit of preparing, pureeing, and equipment washing involved in my dad’s 3 squares + snacks, and who can argue with that? Clearly it’s a right and valuable use of time, when a person’s physical condition requires specially prepared food, to spend as much time as is needed to specially prepare it.
As for me, I can piddle away the waking part of a day with remarkable adroitness, and still get to the end worn out but with nothing to show for it.
I have tried this as a mom of babies, as a fully-employed (with academics) person, and as the occupant of my current weird and nondescript role. Regardless of the hat I wear at the time, the essentials get done, I goof off some, and I become useless as the sun sets. There ought to be a take-home point, but I don’t quite seem to be getting it. And why should I? If I learned anything at all from life experience I would not have this nasty headache, because I would not have eaten a whole square of chocolate peppermint bark.
Smart people astound me. How can your brain perform those feats? I wonder. Talented people also astound me. How can your brain and fingers possibly communicate with the coordination required to play any instrument--and a fiddle in particular--that fast and flawlessly?
I remain astounded. And perplexed. And headachy.
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