Take A Breather

I'm trying to remember why it's important to plan ahead for things, because when I do that, I just lose the stuff. I had big plans for New Years 2019... take off a gozillion pounds, channel Marie Kondo and minimalize my 2800 square foot Queen Victorian house (right?), learn what the word "no" means, think about going back to college, and last, but not least, take a calligraphy course. I already do all kinds of decorative writing, but I needed to update my calligraphy for sure. It ain't the same as it was when I learned Old English script in the 8th grade. You see cool script everywhere -- on pillows, car windows, water bottles. I needed to get into this century (whichever one this one is). The course was cheap, only twenty-five bucks online. But I had to gather about a hundred dollars worth of supplies before I even started. I had no idea that copy paper could cost over twenty dollars a ream, that really special kind I had to have to become wonderful. I amassed a whole pile of essentials from the art store, put them in a special place, then proceeded to forget about my promise to myself. It's mid-April now. Life gets in the way and I might just be out huntin' squirrels. 

Today I promised myself I'd chase down all those precious things I bought back in December. They were nowhere to be found. I also was looking for a woodgraining tool for a different project. Same result. As I ransacked the house and began wondering not only about the century but about what planet I had landed on, my phone buzzed and an amendment appeared for one of my real estate contracts. I dropped everything, all the searches and thoughts about the Bermuda Triangle, and got to work on the amendment. Then I decided to write my article and chime in on my Facebook page. An alarm started dinging somewhere, in the deep recesses of the kitchen. I wondered what in the Sam Hill that was about.  I shrugged and got to plugging away on my computer, leaving my phone in the galley on the charger, since it was almost dead anyway. Later, I sauntered in there for a glass of water, only to see flashy things on my screen. Then I remembered what the alarm was for. It had nothing to do with pot roast or supper and everything to do with the fact that there were two people already waiting, twenty minutes away, for me to let them into a house to clean it out. As I scrambled out the door, I thought of my favorite children's book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, and how my life might have inspired that tome. 

So with a wild dash, and Ken-Ninja-like maneuvers from here to Fairfield Plantation, I met up with the folks, begged forgiveness, got them in the house, had a nice chat and headed back home. I said, God, You know where all that stuff is. Can you please give me a sign or something? Because apparently I need help. I walked in, went to the studio for the twentieth time and instantly found those art supplies, then marched outside to the barn where I promptly found the woodgraining tool. I let the dog out, plopped down on the swing and looked up. The pecan trees were busting with little, fresh minty buds. All the clouds were gone and the sky looked like somebody had scrubbed it clean. I breathed deeply for the first time today and decided everything else would just have to wait. That was hours ago and I can still feel it. That'll work, until the next squirrel pops up.