Yeah, I missed a couple days of blogging again, but not practicing. Day 77, Tuesday, was my weekly 12-hour day... All music teaching, all day. Only enough time for short practice sessions? Why, too busy with music?
When I was away from my desk the last couple of days, I had an insight. For a TRUE challenge, I could start another blog called "100 Days of Cleaning." Oh, now there's a serious issue. Fulfilling the 100 days would be just as challenging, but BONUS: no existential angst! Just quips about finding lost child in giant dust bunny, bemoaning dishpan hands, and sharing deep and meaningful quotes about toilet cleaners. Finally! The book idea that will be key to our family fortune.
From whence did such brilliance and inspiration come? Day 78, I looked back on the blogless Day 77 and realized that the lack of practice that I began this blog to fix is not due to lack of motivation or focus... it's due to lack of time. And I could apply that lack of time to several important issues. Chief among them: cleaning. Now, how about that.
I thought, but how was I spending my days before this momentous 100? Mostly raising a child, having a husband, and making a living. Not: watching TV, reading fabulous books, spending luxurious hours over cups of coffee with hubby, relaxing with family in hammock... and God no, not cleaning. Just, well, living. Doing laundry and procrastinating putting it away. Loading dishwasher and procrastinating emptying it when clean. Occasionally tidying up enough to make it through the living room without stumbling. But never, ever, ever dusting, and rarely relaxing. Puttering. And, well, not practicing.
So that was Day 77. A little insight, a little practice, but mostly making a living. Day 78? A short, intense practice, then Truro and P-Town all day, with Mini Me. In P-Town, bought a rubber duckie for Mini Me and a hand-cranked piggie flashlight for Big Me. That felt darned complete. When I said "more beach days" the other day, I meant it. Though the pebbly inside of the outer Cape isn't as lovely as the low crashing waves in Plymouth, there are days when it will do.
While sitting on that beach and watching Mini Me up to her knees in frigid water, my friend told me a story. A colleague of hers once described a weekend he'd had—said he'd spent it puttering around the house. Just doing stuff. He called it "God's plan": work all week and putter on weekends.
That might just be true. I returned from Truro at 9 pm, after a long day of puttering and not-practicing, thinking that maybe that really is the master plan. Simply, feeling relaxed. The house is still a mess. Whatever. We'll save that for the next 100 days.