Early in March I envisioned my writing for this day as being some insightful revelation that I had discovered about myself as a writer during this journey. Nope. Didn’t happen. A haiku about trash happened instead. I think this is my way of not saying goodbye to this challenge. Thanks to all of those who took the time to read and especially for those who commented on my posts along the way. You inspired me to keep going! I will see you on Tuesdays!
Does no one notice?
It’s overflowing right there.
Please. Take out the trash.
On day 8 of this challenge, I wrote a list of some things this journey had taught me. Since tomorrow is the last day of the #SOLSC16, I figured today would be a good day to revisit and reflect. Here is a link to the first list in case you would like to read it!
- When you do something every day, it becomes a routine.
- Procrastinating writing my slices until approximately 30 minutes before the deadline to submit has become a routine (see #1)
- I wish the “publish” button said “draft.” (see #2) This blog is more of a ‘writer’s notebook’ kind of blog and less of a published, celebrated work posted on the wall kind of blog. There are lots of those published, celebrated, hanging on the wall kind of blogs out there and I have enjoyed reading them so much this month. But they are still a little intimidating and way out of my league. And that is OK.
- Most of my slices don’t feel very “done” to me. But I don’t regret any of them. I may revisit a few. Or I may not.
- Funny is my comfort zone. Writing deep, powerful, emotional things is hard. This could also relate back to #2. It’s hard to get deep and emotional when it is 8:30 and you have to post your slice at 9:00. And you also haven’t started writing it yet.
- i still overthink my overthinking. I don’t think that is going to change anytime soon. Or maybe it will? Maybe I should think about that some more?
- Haiku and six word memoirs are total last minute-I-am-tired-and-don’t-really-want-to/have-time-to-do-this copouts. And I will be eternally grateful to them for it.
- There is still absolutely nothing that compares to the excitement of someone commenting on my writing. Unless it is someone who has commented a few times who I feel like I know a little bit through reading their writing! Yay for new writing friends!
- It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. It was just hard enough.
- I did it! (Almost) And that makes me pretty proud.
I was told that there is research that shows that when we multi-task we actually perform worse than if we do one thing at a time. I would probably know the researcher and where I heard this tidbit of information if I weren’t doing three other things while I learned it. But it’s ok, because I choose not to believe it anyway. Because I am a multi-tasker extraordinaire. According to myself, at least.
Currently, I am checking texts from my sister (oh….now mom has also joined the conversation!), sending the kids off to brush their teeth and get ready for bed, making myself a too-late-I’m-so-starving-you-might-want-to-keep-your-distance-dinner (risotto…not something I have had success with in the past, we shall see how it goes this time!), putting dishes in the dishwasher, and writing my slice of life.
I am pretty sure I have caused myself some kind of brain damage through all of this multi-tasking because I am now to the point where doing one thing and only one thing is virtually impossible for me. Maybe I don’t do everything to the same level that I would do it if I did each thing one…thing…at…a…time, but I get it all done. And if I did one…thing…at…a…time, I would only have three and a half minutes left to sleep at the end of each day. And also I think I would hate myself because one…thing…at….a…timers kind of drive me nuts. (I am pretty sure this is somehow connected to my post-office/DMV avoidance behaviors).
Ok, enough time reflecting on my multi-tasking….time to read to the kids, tuck them in, eat the risotto (it looks pretty good), and keep up on the mom/sister conversation. All at once.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
If enough people ask you if you are claustrophobic, you start to wonder if you should be.
Same is true for the “do you have any metal in your body?” question. “No. I definitely don’t have any metal in my body.” “Nope, no metal.” “I don’t think I do.” “Wait….do I?”
Ear plugs muffle the outside noises, but make the internal ones louder. One could argue that I am speaking metaphorically here, but I mean actual internal noises. Real ones. I heard my heart beating and even think I heard the whooshing of blood circulating. But I guess this could have been any number of other whooshy things. MRI machines are not exactly quiet. I think this is what being in the womb must feel like…
I always forget to ask (or forget to listen) which way the hospital gown should open. And I invariably put it on the wrong way.
I CAN lie still for 20 minutes. My mother, sister, and husband would argue that this is a physical impossibility. The MRI tech (doctor?) even told me “good job staying still.” No one has ever told me that before. Ever.
A hot, slow cup of coffee on a lazy Sunday
A good book
Hiking trails bursting with yellow and purple
The giggles of children floating through the breeze
Baby vegetables growing in my garden
Caterpillars fuzzily squirming up the stems of plants
A good movie and a warm husband
A day off tomorrow…
We don’t like hard boiled eggs. They smell bad, the yoke is dry and weird tasting, and they are kind of hard to peel. So every year, we dye raw eggs. And every year, I clean up egg from the kitchen floor.
But my kids are growing. And this means they are more careful and responsible and now know that eggs roll off a flat table. So this means less broken eggs every year. And it also means that they are getting bigger. And they are not my bitty babies anymore. And most of the time, I am OK with that. I love seeing them grow up and develop into little people who make me proud.
But sometimes it reminds me of all the little baby cute stuff they did that they will never do again. Never again will they sleep with their tiny legs squished up to their chests. Never again will their whole hand snuggle tightly around my pinkie finger. Never again will they make that sucking milky face when they’re sleeping. Never again will they have that smell…that baby smell…
Sometimes I miss my broken eggs.
Soared up up
Twirling, pirouetting, tiptoing
Across the blue stage
The prima donna stealing the show
From the crashing waves and
Silently gliding, floating,
And finally taking