Had an interesting realization today.
The most important thing for the day, today, was typing up chapter eight.
I was about halfway through, taking a break, when I realized that for some reason, I felt I wasn’t doing the most important thing.
Where the hell was that coming from? Writing is the most important thing. But I’ve had twinges of this before.
I poked at my brain for a bit, and finally realized it was because I wasn’t “working.” Writing isn’t work. It’s play. It’s fun. Somewhere deep in my head, from my Calvinistic-Victorian upbringing, I still have residues of work = important, play = not important.
Writing is important, and it doesn’t matter if it feels like play or not. Yet another invisible script for me to rewrite.
A few weeks ago, I bought mason bees and a little bee house for them. Though I’ve been seeing more bees around my property, I didn’t know if the mason bees had stuck around, and were using their house. Today, I’ve been able to work outside and I watched them going in and out of the house all the time. I’m quite pleased by that. And the tremendous number of birds in my yard. As well as the BEAUTIFUL rogue roses. I’ll have to post pictures sometime soon. They’re a brilliant, deep red, with furled petals, and they smell heavenly, that rich, heavy, old rose scent.
And now that I’ve finished the most important thing, I need to go do everything else.