slow progress—with joy

As I had decided that I would get into my end-of-year accounts today aiming to have everything completed by the end of the weekend : I denied myself a walk or a run in the lovely autumnal light of this morning, I meant business, you see. But the light pouring in was so full of joy and energy that I found a million things to do instead of tucking into my piled up receipts and numbers. I vaccumed half of the house, read half of the current issue of Le Monde Diplomatique, a quarter of one of the issues of the London Review of Books that have piled up recently, put a wash on and hung it out, cooked lovely oat and millet savoury cakes for lunch, made lists of things to do, wrote this post, sorted out half of a room that needed attention, worried about my pile of homework (put aside in favour of accounting work). But I did not bake a cake, nor copied out the poem I meant to, nor made much progress in the accounting area leaving the lion share for the morrow, nor progressed in any of the books I am currently reading. The last day I had earmarked for my accounts about a week ago I ended up cleaning windows and scrubbing floors.
This is an anniversary day here, there will be some red wine and zurek (missing its dot on the ‘z’)—a Polish soup with soured rye flour, mushrooms, hard-boiled eggs and sausage—one of my most favourite soups in the world, and I am looking forward to this. Ah! let’s get the wash in, and add a few numbers together to ease my slight guilt. Guilt ? No. I got so much done that needed doing, if not much of what I had planned. I just followed my nose around the house, this is my life.

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