A Lack of Focus

Thought generation is in bits and pieces this week. Twice this week Will has corrected my driving en-route to school and activities. “Aren’t we supposed to be taking Joe to gymnastics?” I had picked up James but turned a corner away from Joe's house.

“Ah, yes,” I thanked Will as I turned the van around. I believe the van was on auto-pilot to Liam’s school. Wrong place. Wrong time of day. Wrong kid.

“My mom makes wrong turns all the time,” James said. He was clearly un-phased that I had forgotten Joe. “But Dad never does.”

Then this morning, Will stated with hesitation, “I thought Kristine was riding to school with us this morning…”

“Thanks, Will!” Again, I turned the van around.

"Being in the moment" is not me this week. Situations need mulling before action is taken. Schedules need ironed out to get everyone to where they need to go. Little vignettes have been running in my head on a non-stop loop.

This is my third hour sitting in the Quiet Room at the public library to write – two hours yesterday and one, thus far, today. In an attempt to empty my head of those vignettes, I wrote “Put it out of my mind” at the top of a paper, followed by a list of things I cannot resolve or act on when my butt is in this seat.

Then, I reminded myself:

No phone calls. It’s the Quiet Room.

No personal emails. It’s my rule when in the Quiet Room.

No worrying. It’s my writing time.

And, I’m stumped. Not for lack of material, but for lack of focus. For not knowing what to write about. My thought: There needs to be a smoother transition from chief of operations in the house to this writer sitting at a keyboard. As COO within the last hour, I made phone calls, paid bills, returned emails, threw laundry on; then raced out the door to get my butt in this chair so I would have a solid chunk of time to write before picking up my sons from school; made the “forget it” list; flung open the computer… and watched time pass while writing about nothing.

Now, two hours later and still, nothing.

Yes, the transition. It needs to be more fluid and more thoughtful. To reign in the piece of me that belongs right here, in this moment. That woman who writes works in a lower gear than the one who drove here. Maybe the writer will be here next week. If she makes the right turn.

It truly is a Hump Day. And this is a Hump Day Shorter-than-Short.