Last night I painted the skirting boards.
If you ignore the bits where the newspaper cut into the wet paint or we were a little overcautious with the edges of the carpet that we’ll hopefully be saying goodbye to soon anyway, it looks pretty good. The same goes for the walls and the ceilings. Over-examination is never a good thing.
I was talking to my old boss afterwards and I realised that I haven’t been writing properly for a year. “That’ll be what’s wrong” is one of the things she said. It’s hard to fit writing in with everyday life, particularly when everyday life is full of moving houses and unpacking boxes and the daily commute and time for friends and work and lazy dinners with wine –
I guess you can always find an excuse for not doing things.
I responded, “but I have nothing to write about at the moment” but, as I was lying in bed waiting for the diet coke to wear off, I wondered how that could possibly be true. Making every moment count has been one of my priorities for the past few years and I am sorry that I have stopped noticing them.
So I decided, last night, that writing every day was a priority, whether I thought I had something to say or not. That even a line of “today I painted skirting boards” was sufficient for me to appreciate the moment. That even if whatever “theme” I am seeking is not obvious at the moment, it’s not going to become any more apparent if I just sit waiting for the sledge hammer rather than creating a space where it can emerge.
Guess I’m back.