On my desk is an open book with my glasses in the open spine, my Kindle to which I just downloaded and began reading a new book, my France Eyewitness guide, a map of the south of France—both being used in the writing of my solo book, my garden journal, my notebook with heretofore unrealized marketing ideas, a folder from my paid part-time employment with a piece of work for one person and an article with which I will prepare something for another, my laptop, and my breakfast.
I’m waiting for a call from my co-author with whom I’m working on a third book; and in an hour and a half I will pick up my father to spend the day with me. Once he’s here, all the rest of this goes by the wayside except perhaps the open book. That’s an English translation of a French book I’m reading with my friends, and since it’s a loan from a library in another state, I’m pressed to finish it before I have to send it back. I will sit with my father for a little while now and again through the day to chat or just be together in between the lunch and dinner “performances” in the kitchen and at the table. I expect six at the table for dinner.
I think this is overload. It’s what I’ve always done. Do I think it’s the right way to live? Who cares? It’s my way. And it has afforded me a life full of love and laughter, adventure and challenges, risks and triumphs, failures and wisdom, friendships and good food.
There’s a certain denial that comes with a life like mine. Denial about our vulnerability, about my need for activity and my doggedness about cramming it all in. I refuse to relinquish any thought to slowing down. And the rest be damned!