I rotate my head around and up and down and to the left and to the right, grasping for the next topic and the next few words to write.
My eyes come to rest on toy animals, books, the ashes of beloved pets, the gentle but firm snowfall outside, and a pile of paper on a surface that I promised would never again be covered with piles of paper. There: A goal for when this writing session ends.
We load up our lives with scraps of tasks, one on top of the other, and soon we are so piled up that we have neglected the original task — in this case, to keep it all clear of distractions. The famous aphorism may say it best: When you’re waist deep in alligators, it’s easy to forget that your plan was to drain the swamp.
I’m fortunate, this time, that the pile is not so high that I might despair of seeing the surface of my desk ever again.
Now, once I reach the surface, I need to promise myself — again — that it will stay clear. Some promises need to be renewed a few times before they stick.