Puttering

This morning, I slept until 9:00. I thought it was 8:00. Suddenly realizing it was nine, I had to scramble to get to my job by ten. It wasn’t awful. It just reminded me of what it’s like to scramble.

Henry’s mom had spent the night away helping her sister prepare to move. I’d put Henry to bed without incident and then he awoke, at a time I never spotted on the clock, awash with wanting his mom. “I want my mom,” he wailed for what felt like hours. He wouldn’t be consoled. I kept saying, “I understand. Of course you do. It’s okay.” If I tried to touch him to comfort him he got madder and wailed with more vigor. Finally that moment came when I said, “That’s enough,” and scooped him up in my arms, only to find he’d wet through his pajamas. I changed him and read him his Thomas book once again. Then shut out the light. I went back to my bed at twenty after three. About six he crawled into bed with me, got back up to go get his book, and then snuggled in to the curve of my body. We slept until nine. I scrambled.

Back home from work with the house to myself, I do the opposite of scrambling. I putter. I am amazed “on the job” at what I get done in a few hours. I briefly think that I could do the same as home: scramble around and have everything that needs doing done quickly. Then I get up from my desk, heat my coffee, and put away the dishes. I go back to make the bed that I left in my scramble and the cats are sleeping there. I don’t need to disturb them. I’ll make it later. Coming back through the kitchen, I take out the garbage, spray the can with disinfectant, put in a new bag, retrieve my cup from the microwave, return to my desk.

This is puttering. It sets all the scrambling right. I feel back in my element.

It is not without its down side. Pretty soon I’m thinking, ‘Oh hell. I’ve got stuff all mixed up. Writing here, there, and everywhere. Cabin laptop, thumb drive, hard drive, desk top. I know I’ve written something, but where? And who cares?’

It’s a new day.

It is the strangest thing. Somewhere…maybe about three years into my spiritual experiences…I began to need to write with immediacy. Going back to the thoughts of the day before felt like turning back the hands on the clock. I was worried. ‘How,’ I asked myself, ‘can I remain a writer? How can I be a writer if I can’t go back? If I can’t develop a theme? If I can’t stick with anything? If I can’t revise?’ I swear, it feels like a miracle that I got a book written.

My spiritual and writing life has become that of a putterer. It fits my nature. It’s hard to put on a time-schedule. It’s unorganized. My desk rarely gets cleaned. I hardly ever back-up my computer. Everything I have to “try” to get myself to do makes me feel ornery and burdened. There’s a time that will come within the puttering…or not.

And then once in a while I have to scramble. I love the days, like today, when I find it an acceptable way to be.