Kneading 6 pizzas-worth of dough, with today’s dinner in the oven and tomorrow’s on the hob, it dawned on me that, perhaps, I was doing too many things at once.
Sadly, this is what I’m like: a little thought sneaks into my head about how happy I would feel if I got such and such done, and so, I do it. Almost without fail.
The most ridiculous one recently was when I found myself, in the dark, cutting back sedum plants in the back flower bed. It was nearly pitch black, the children could have been killing eachother inside, and I had to do it all by guess-work. Crazy woman. A small spider’s nest that I hadn’t noticed was pointed out to me about 2 weeks ago, and it took a lot of self-restraint not to get the hoover there and then. I did it the next day instead.
The worst thing about this is that doing all these little things does not bring contentment, or a well-deserved rest afterwards. It just makes me frazzled, and keeps me worrying about the other little things I could have done when I was doing those ones.
So now, sitting down, drinking luke-warm tea with one hand, straining to reach all the keys with the other, something else is bothering me. I’ll be lucky if I get to finish before I stand up and get it. It’s a red folder. Full of a potential novel. My novel, which has been going on for years now, and never gets finished because of the pull of other duties. That red folder is the biggest, strongest, most guilt-sodden thing in this house. And look at me now: I could be writing more of it, but instead, because someone commented that I hadn’t blogged this week, the sneaky thought has wriggled in, and won.
Here’s something positive though: the little things don’t always pile up into a mountain. Sometimes, they feel more like roots digging in to the person I enjoy being, or a lifeline chain up and out of moments of bleak purposelessness.
But wait. Do you hear that? Another thought beckons, there’s another molehill to conquer: I’m away to re-knead the dough.