Part of me wonders if I’ve run out of things to write about. Then in solitary minutes when so many thoughts bloom that it feels like hours of flow, an entire essay will write itself in my head. This happened over the last few days while I was away from this thought tracking device, aka: the keyboard. I assure you the writings felt cohesive and reflective; however, I seem to have left them somewhere on an airplane between Cedar Rapids and Chicago or Chicago and Boston when we flew back from Easter on the farm in Iowa. Or maybe they got run through one of the loads of laundry I did yesterday. I thought if I put my butt in the chair in the library quiet room this afternoon, one of them might come careening in, ready to be lassoed and tamed. I’m watching the clock and wondering how long I have to wait here before I can call it done and leave.
***
That was a week ago. I’m back in the chair.
The proliferation of goal setting advice, continuous improvement methodology, and suggestions to expand one’s general horizon has hampered the movement of my fingers on a keyboard. I set a goal in January of submitting my writing to contests and journals. To accomplish this goal, I followed new, interesting writing organizations and actually did submit an abruptly written essay to two different contests. I’ll hear from them in October.
The weeks leading up to this deadline were miserable. I plugged the deadline into my weekly calendar so that I wouldn’t forget about it, yet I didn’t put any industrious energy toward it. Fretting does not fall under the category of Industrious. Yesterday, I reassessed that newly minted submissions goal; then I deleted two more gloomy loomers from my calendar. I unsubscribed from all organizations that were sending me regular opportunities for continuous writing improvement.
The immediate about face was due to the fact that I miss writing and sending regular old musings. Without submission deadlines and enrichment opportunities bobbing around, well… my head, my calendar, and my inbox seem to have more available random access memory. Unencumbered movement. Bunge cords detached. Sticky cobwebs knocked down.
As I wondered what to write today after being gone for a while, I landed on the idea of an ice breaker to reacquaint us—a kind of writing prompt. The question I’m posing: What might you not know about me?
First, if you come over to my house for dinner, chances are I will have shoes on when I answer the door; however, by the time you leave, I will be barefoot. My shoes and socks will be shed under the dining room table at the first bite of salad. We are not a “shoes off” house, yet I know that if I answer the door barefoot, you will take your shoes off. I prefer you to hang out at our house however you are most comfortable. So, my message answering the door is, “No worries about taking your shoes off.” Then after dinner, you will see I am barefoot, and hopefully, you will take your shoes off too if that’s how you are most comfortable.
Item two: When all hell breaks loose under my nose, in the country, or across the globe, the laundry remains steadfast, controllable, unchangeable. Loyal, stable, unremarkable. With a purposeful walk into the laundry room, I instantly know what to do based on the visual clues: clothes hanging on the rod -> take them to the closets; a full section of whites in the dirty laundry sorting bins -> wash whites; a full drying rack in the hallway from yesterday -> fold clothes and put them away. If I can get the scramble of dirty laundry from upstairs (aka: dirty towels in the bathroom, scattered track clothes on the floor in Liam’s room, and a full basket of dirty clothes from our room) to the laundry room, I can start putting the world in order. Someone will benefit from clean underwear, freshly folded towels, and unwrinkled shirts drying on hangers. Doing laundry, perhaps considered by some a thankless task, is in my complete control. No adverb can fully convey how thankful I am for the ability to do laundry.
I might have mentioned the shoe thing and the laundry thing at some point in the past twelve years of musings, but I know I haven’t mentioned the fact that I’ve started taking improv classes in Boston. This has been a real push-pull experience. Standing on a stage with eight strangers has pulled me out from under a rock of social angst and inactivity graciously bestowed upon so many of us over the last couple of years. As a lifelong planner of everything, the classes have pushed me to think on my feet. Nothing can be planned in improv. You take the stage, a first line is delivered and a second line must follow. Improv is exhausting, exhilarating, and inexplicable—in the best possible way, for nobody knows what they are doing. And we chose to put ourselves in this wrinkle. Lunacy. Amusement. Gratification.