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The wedding is over, and life is returning to normal. And I am finding, day by day, hour by hour, tasks I've left undone, promises I have failed to keep, chores I've simply ignored.
I spent much of the day just trying to figure out how far behind I am.
With all this, of course, comes a necessary assessment process. Are there things I planned on doing that really don't need being done? You bet. Letters I intended to write, art shows I meant to enter, calls I really and truly thought I would make... I've swept a passel of these things into a virtual wastebasket today, and my guess is that no one will even notice.
All that makes me question, of course, how much of what I - or anyone - deems so important really and truly is.
A friend admitted recently that, faced with that odd springtime swarm of ladybugs, most of whom ended up dying in her house, she'd pretty much just left them there, at least for a while. In turn, I admitted that I've been tossing paint-soaked paper towels all over my studio, and leaving them there, sometimes for weeks. Has anyone died from this sort of slobbiness? No. Not so far.
We've got food in the house and gas in the cars. If we go for a few days without fruit or lettuce, if the floors should have been swept on Sunday, if the electric company really wants its money, well, all those shoulds will surely become dids.
And as they do, what's important - people, family, love, pets and, of course, art - rises to the surface. I will remind myself, again and again, that the rest of it is ephemera. Worrying about it is a waste of time. And feeling guilty about it all is simply self-defeating.
The important stuff is here, and now, simmering on the stove, watching TV in the other room, sleeping at my feet, reading these words. That is all that matters.