Omer. Day Nine

I'm a bit all over the board to day. Some might say that's a step up for me. I have no idea when I became so discombobulated by life. I used to think I was organized. I am awesome at creating systems. I can color code and categorize with the  best. When I was in grad school, I had a 500 page binder of note cards, all with headers, dub-headers and timeline - for a 20 page paper. So what that the actual writing of the paper got away from me: I was on top of all the tiny, tiny little pieces.

When did I go from keeping on top of all minutiae to making piles that meld into the other piles that have long since toppled into one another, waiting only for me to grow annoyed enough with all the piles to attack them one afternoon, and create brand new, totally separate piles with a bag of paper and other office litter that is too heavy for me to lift. Bonus: I usually do my battle on bright and sunny days, when the air is sweet and the humidity low. My subconscious works overtime to add one more to my list of inanimate object resentment. My sub-subconscious is trickier, and gives itself a high five at finding an appropriate punishment for my procrastination.

I always feel better after these battles - lighter, cooler, able to breathe a bit easier. There is a sense of accomplishment: Ta da! I did it! I vanquished all that paper and mail and evil... Oh wait. It's just paper. There will be no parade in my honor, no confetti (that will remain on mt floor until the next dust up with the enemy). Dammit.

I could promise to change. Have promised to change. To keep the piles low, to set up a schedule, to make a plan. And stick to it. Really I will! But (wait for it) I don't. It is all a piece of the controlled chaos that is my life. Which really, when I lay it out like that, is kinda crappy. Who wants to live a life of chaos - and pretend that it's controlled in any way?

So I write notes and make files. I but boxes and accordion folders in awesome colors. And there's e-calendars and timers and reminders. And I throw most of the junk mail out as soon as I get it. And I at least fold the laundry these days, and mainly hang up the stuff that needs hanging. And the bills get paid mostly before I get passive aggressive robo-call reminders. And there's food on the table and a roof over our heads - and yeah - it sounds as if I'm justifying my crappy behavior. Maybe I am. Or maybe, just maybe, all those piles - even the tumbling ones, are a little smaller than they were a year or three ago. And the chaos is a little less chaotic than it used to be. And the time between doing fierce battle with all the mess (physical, mental, spiritual - pick one) grows a little shorter.

It's progress, not perfection. And I think that, these days, I have chosen to dismantle the biggest of the piles - the most threatening, dangerous and twisty pile: the one I've kept hidden, that holds all the nasty little voices that tell me I am less than, and broken, and beyond repair. It hides the fun house mirror of distortion and lies. I think I'm ready to walk away and finally leave that pile behind.

So, if you ask me, on this omer-journey what do I carry, what will I leave behind, I think the answer is not as mysterious as I once thought.

And so we count nine/