Yesterday evening I was writing in my journal before going to bed, as I was feeling anxious about not having completed enough over the weekend for the week ahead. Writing such thing out helps me to get them out of my mind and plan concrete steps for the next day (or days), and this lets me sleep. If I go to bed still fretful I will just get up two hours later and have to write it out then, so last night I attempted to prevent that scenario in advance.
Usually I start that kind of thing by writing out what is worrying me. Last night, however, I started by writing out what I had accomplished during the day.
And you know what? I had actually done quite a lot.
This was something of a minor revelation to me because I had been feeling so disorganised and unproductive. Yet the only thing I hadn’t done but hoped to do was write out some further notes on my lecture for Tuesday. I had thought about said lecture; talked about it with my mother (who gave me some good advice about starting with what I wanted the students to learn from it and working backwards from there); wrote out some notes-to-self on what I wanted them to learn. I went to the library and got books on various useful topics. I even looked at a couple of them.
I read Euripides’ The Bacchae for class today.
I went to church, and began to learn how to count the donations afterwards so I can help out in future. I met some interesting people (and we went out to lunch!) doing so.
I put beans on to soak so I could make baked beans in the slow cooker this Monday morning.
I wrote in my journal, worked out some snags in my current story, thought about where in Europe I would particularly like to go.
I figured out whether I could afford to go to a writers’ festival in Cape Breton at the end of the month, and some logistics of getting there and accommodation, and also what elements of it I particularly wanted to attend — the Saturday workshop sessions — so that I could come back on the Sunday and have time to prepare for the week following.
I went for a walk.
I talked to my family.
I wrote most of a letter to a friend that might possibly make it in time for her birthday, if I remember to finish it and send it off today. I remembered that there were several other September birthday friends I need to send cards to, albeit they will likely (and in one case certainly — sorry Steffany!) arrive belatedly.
I read part of an essay by Milan Kundera on novels, and continued with Herman Melville’s short story The Encantanadas or Enchanted Isles, which interestingly had epitaphs from the section of Spenser’s Faerie Queene I’m going to be lecturing on this week, so I read those twice.
I drew up a schedule of my week ahead to help with planning my time out. Although admittedly I was supposed to be working on a list of iconographical symbols for my students right now rather than writing this.
I also spent a small amount of time fossicking around on the Internet.
Not bad at all for a Sunday. Let me remember these things and be thankful for the time I have, the energies I have, and also remember well this Sunday’s Gospel reading: “sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.” I have too much of a tendency to borrow trouble — this is veering away from prudence into anxiety and timidity — and I am going to work on it.