It's Friday morning, and I'm once again procrastinating. I know I have a poem about that, and maybe I should just write another one about this condition from which I seem to suffer.
In the sink, my dishes wait. Some lucky ones have made it to the dish rack, waiting this time for the darkness of a cupboard or the wire shelves of my grandmother's old ice chest. I know there is a tile floor under all the flour, milk spots, and dirt we track in from outside. And if I just folded the towels in the clean laundry basket, the pile wouldn't look so tall.
Sometimes I think there's nothing to write about, when the truth is, there is too much. That's when I see the world through ADHD eyes, unable to take dictation one bite at a time. Write about what surrounds you at this moment - the rest will come, the poets say. I think this is true, so what pulls me away to the kitchen, to the internet, makes me stare in disbelief at the mountains of stuff I have to do? My son comes by his frustrations honestly, often unable to partition the giga picture down into doable bytes.
So, I realise I am being creative, and I'm thankful for the time to do this. No matter that I've forgotten my yogurt making, that the milk is now too cold. I'll heat it up again, and all will work out in the end. I'm writing, taking photos, and sharing, and it feels good. Whole. Productive. I feel this most when I am sharing with others. It's good to know you're out there. And for this, I'm deeply thankful.