…refuse

To me,
Wormwood is told something to the effect of, “Don’t make them sin, only unable to prioritize.”[1] That’s me. My life is a perpetual state of overwhelmed and exhausted, so why not add writing to the mix? I can do this … too. Love T.

I struggle to live with the notion that I can drive up to the garage, hop out, load myself up and make it to the back door with a child’s half-emptied ‘pack-pack’ slung over one shoulder and one of those plastic grocery bag slung by its handle over the crook of my elbow. Oh! And today’s to-do list shoved in my back pocket.

How does someone live like this? It’s simple. I don’t allow myself to notice. If I looked around and had time to evaluate, the small semblance of sanity that is still rattling around in the maze of my mind may find its way out.

Ha, me!
Stay-at-home Mom—what a misnomer, I muse as I drive across town to the practice de jour. What was I thinking? I’m working in all my spare time, so realistically my goal is to publish sometime next century.
Hopeful, T.

The balancing act is complete when I tilt my hip far to the right to support the arm holding the piano books, the sports bags and rogue library books that try to escape and join the jungle in the shadows under the seat.

I hate making a myriad of trips. It’s a personal pet peeve. I’d rather overload myself and leave whatever falls by the wayside to be retrieved on the next trip. Unfortunately, the next trip goes like the last trip, and the cast-offs accumulate-either in the vehicle or midway on the trail in between. If I had that one extra hand, then I could rake up the day’s trash and stash it in that last, desperate spot of storage; the waistband of my pants.

To me,
Today, I empathize with agoraphobics, who fear wide open spaces and never leave their homes. As the vehicle exits the garage on even the smallest errand, I drive into a time abyss, and when I return, hours have escaped, and I have no recollection of where the time went. T

Reality Bite: I refuse to be walking refuse.

[1] C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. Maybe. That’s what I got out of it.