(Click on the thumbnail to view larger image)Some people (Let’s face it women, mostly. Because, over all, we do more housework than men do. ) talk about housework being conducive to a meditative state. After all, you don’t burn a lot of brain cells dusting and scrubbing. The greatest percentage of your mind is free to wander.
Lately, I have been doing A Lot of housework and my mind is wandering in ways that are not necessarily productive. Now, some of the woolgathering is devoted to soul-stirring images of life in Bear Valley. Pictures of sunsets replete with breathtaking clouds swimming in shimmering golds, hawks swooping down in the meadow grass just beyond our back door, deer wandering across our pasture land and stopping to graze, our horses gamboling in the field with the Tehachapi’s as a backdrop—pretty sweet stuff. On the other hand, some stuff creeps into my head that is not so comforting. Lately, one image that returns all too frequently is that of the blasted hourglass of time. (Natuarlly, this is partially connected to The Book. SoFoBoMo, that is.) But, here’s what’s troubling. That sand in my hourglass isn’t passing through to the bottom slowly and smoothly, as it should. The darned thing is functioning more like a funnel—and I’m talking about a biiiig funnel—one you would use for flour, or rocks, for crying out loud.
Lately, I have been doing A Lot of housework and my mind is wandering in ways that are not necessarily productive. Now, some of the woolgathering is devoted to soul-stirring images of life in Bear Valley. Pictures of sunsets replete with breathtaking clouds swimming in shimmering golds, hawks swooping down in the meadow grass just beyond our back door, deer wandering across our pasture land and stopping to graze, our horses gamboling in the field with the Tehachapi’s as a backdrop—pretty sweet stuff. On the other hand, some stuff creeps into my head that is not so comforting. Lately, one image that returns all too frequently is that of the blasted hourglass of time. (Natuarlly, this is partially connected to The Book. SoFoBoMo, that is.) But, here’s what’s troubling. That sand in my hourglass isn’t passing through to the bottom slowly and smoothly, as it should. The darned thing is functioning more like a funnel—and I’m talking about a biiiig funnel—one you would use for flour, or rocks, for crying out loud.
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Anita