I’ve been alone at home for a few days. All my people are out of town. I’ve been lonely rattling around the house all by myself, and find myself in a weird restless state where I don’t seem to want to do any of the things I normally do when I have down time. I can’t bring myself to draw. I looked at the garden through the window but I didn’t go out in it. My journal entries are disjointed collections of random sentences that don’t have anything to do with one another. I’ve gone for walks, I’ve read in short bursts, I’ve played solitaire, I’ve watched reruns of the Great British Baking Show.
This morning, I ate the overnight oats I started in the fridge last night. I did the Wordle (completed in 3 tries) and the Connections (did not succeed) at the kitchen table. When I poured my coffee, I sat and wondered what I’d do with myself for the day. I felt a sense of languishing. I just couldn’t get up the gumption to do anything. I looked out the window and wondered if the grass was wet; I needed to mow today and it was going to be hot later.
Mornings are my favorite time of day, and anything done in the morning with a cup of coffee becomes a treat. I figured I’d go out and check the wetness of the grass, and I’d take my mug with me.
Once I was outside in the fresh air, I moved beyond just checking the wetness of the grass, and I walked the garden beds for the first time in days. It felt so lovely out, and the birdsong so tranquil, I started feeling motivated. If I did the lawn now, I could sit out in the garden later with my book and enjoy the birds and butterflies and neatly trimmed grass.
The next thing I knew, it was two hours later. I’d edged the beds, weeded, cut back some things that needed trimming, mown the lawn, and refilled the bird baths. I felt accomplished, and my feeling of languishing was gone.
Later in the day, when my chair was in the shade of the dogwood tree, I took my book outside and read in the garden. Finches stopped at the birdbath for a drink and a splash, and bees buzzed happily in the flowers. Now I’m inside while I write, and three little birds poke around in one of the flower boxes outside our front door. I see the tidy lawn and feel satisfied. Tomorrow, I’ll get to go out and read again.
Butterfly Mind 