It snowed almost the whole day, and nobody in this house did much.
I try to convince myself it’s alright not to do much sometimes, but mostly I fail. At the convincing, not at the not doing stuff, I don’t do stuff plenty, I’m quite capable with it.
That’s why this blog feels important, good, even. Every day I do something. Even if it’s silly and small, it’s something, and it’s been done.
When I imagine an ideal person, they’re doing stuff all the time. Trimming timber before cooking dinner before making the bed for their beloved, so they can stay up late working on their manuscript only to wake up early to do yoga, meditate, and make the bed after their beloved has gotten up to freshly baked scones.
Such labor becomes ascetic, monomaniacal, unhealthy, and unfunny when it confronts reality.
How much is the right amount of working? Somewhere between World of Warcraft and scones, I think.
That’s why this blog feels important, good, even. Every day I do something. Even if it’s silly and small, it’s something, and it’s been done.
When I imagine an ideal person, they’re doing stuff all the time. Trimming timber before cooking dinner before making the bed for their beloved, so they can stay up late working on their manuscript only to wake up early to do yoga, meditate, and make the bed after their beloved has gotten up to freshly baked scones.
Such labor becomes ascetic, monomaniacal, unhealthy, and unfunny when it confronts reality.
How much is the right amount of working? Somewhere between World of Warcraft and scones, I think.