I would really like to prophesy my whole life into a day planner. Wouldn’t you?
I use my phone, a hard-copy planner, post it notes, and occasionally the back of my left hand. That’s right, because sometimes middle-school habits die hard. And sometimes they don’t die at all.
Unfortunately, the temporary tattoo alert-system only works in between bathroom breaks. I always forget this until I see my skin-close reminder wash down the sudsy drain. Hand-washing foils my alert system every time, which might mean it’s time to give it up.
I’m always on the hunt for more organizational real estate. The power of a pen and paper make me feel like a king in my own kingdom. I am regulating my moments, prioritizing them, and occasionally detailing one or two with an asterisk that says, “Yep. You’re probably going to forget this one until the night before.”
“Please. Don’t forget.”
“What was that thing on the 23rd again?”
I want to take charge of my cluttered little life with words and numbers, to take new territory in the corners of calendar boxes, to color code the flavors of productivity.
Organization is not a bad thing, it’s a clever tool for tightening the schedule enough to keep details in their proper place, like Spanx on a busy life. Sometimes it’s completely necessary, other times it’s completely suffocating. I guess it just depends on your outfit for the day.
I’m working on the balance, fighting for due diligence and making sure my commitments dance their way into follow-through. This part of adulthood is a delicate balance: fostering responsibility and availability at the same time, planning well without giving myself permission to be annoyed by this interruptible life.
This interruptible life.
Oh! I just remembered…
“Bailey, stop barking!”
Did I make my lunch?
What time is it!?
I should write that down.
… Sorry. What was I saying?
Last night, we had a friend stop over who is simply one of our favorites. The three of us stood around the kitchen sharing dinner and talking about things I’ve already forgotten. We never sat down at the table. We didn’t bless the food. I forgot to give him a fork with his meal. Don’t worry. I recovered.
It was spontamunity in its blessed form, the kind that occurs when you leave the front door unlocked behind you, even if only by accident.
I had every intention of writing a nice blog for you last night between the hours of 7 and 10 pm, of taking my time and carefully crafting a lethal truth-bullet.
But instead, this interruptible life reminded me who’s the boss.
And it’s not me.
It’s not me.*
As much as I’d like to tighten up my whole life, to rush in and out and lock the front door behind me, I have to be interrupted for my own sake. I must be reminded not to color-code my way out of my own life. I must give permission to linger, to break the habit of justifying selfishness with “I really don’t have the time.”
I do have the time. I just can’t see it yet.
I might be responsible, but I’m not the boss.
I’m not the boss.
I’m not the boss.*
And somehow an unfinished life still gets done everyday.
I’m spontaneously available in this interruptible life.
Because I’m not the king of this kingdom, but sometimes I forget.