Every Sunday night, she makes a list. Two lists, actually. One: groceries. Two: menu. She didn't do that this week, and now she has a refrigerator full of food needing attention, and a freezer full of food uselessly frozen.Note: thaw sirloin. Make beef and mushroom soup. What's the plan, Stan?
She has a double batch of applesauce out on the porch awaiting attention, because she forgot about it yesterday. It wasn't on her list of things to do. Note: can applesauce
Why is it that she is so dependent upon her lists? Note: mail packages. Buy stamps. Pick up box at post office. Pick up letters with insufficient postage. Why can't she remember even the most rudimentary tasks? Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Oh, and dishes, too. Are they not important? Why is it that she has to schedule in things like exercise? Emails to send? Volunteering? She was lucky that her brain came through yesterday because she forgot she was supposed to be in her son's classroom. Of course, the brain only gave her fifteen minute's notice and she was still in her pajamas when she remembered... Still. She made it, even if slightly disheveled.
Is it just that she's over-scheduled? Bring guitar to shop to have string replaced. Is it that everyone in the Gingerbread House is over-scheduled? Make a snack to share at the pack meeting tonight. It makes it hard to see the forest for the trees.
She thinks of the palindrome, "A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!" She loves plans. Plans make her feel comfortable. They give her a fence and a boundary, a place to start. A man, a plan, a canal, Panama! If you start with a plan, you can accomplish great things. Is that what it teaches us? Or is it that in moving forward, you eventually return to exactly where you were before, just like a boomerang? A man, a plan, a canal, Panama. Right in the middle is the 'c,' rolling around. If it rolls back far enough, it turns into a 'u,' a nice cushy spot for a nap. Or a place to write a list.
Skip the canning, and bring applesauce for a snack at the pack meeting.