Lady Sylvia Ashley, Manhattan 1941
As I find myself with barely a minute to myself these days, I wonder how it got like this. A friend asked a favor of me this week—to help her out for an hour or so—and I literally couldn’t find one to spare. I suppose it’s the natural ebb and flow of life, but when do the quiet days come? It seems I am forever chasing my tail in days that start at a gallop the minute I wake up until the moment I lay my head on the pillow.
I know part of it is being single and the sole breadwinner, living in a resort town in southern California. But I have to ask myself if I’ve begun to glorify the act of being busy. It’s one thing to marvel at the full life I’ve created or to find humor in the ridiculousness of a hectic period now and again, but to sprint along, “spinning plates” for extended periods of time is pretty lame. And exhausting.
Silky buried her sorrow in WWII relief work when she unexpectedly lost her beloved Douglas Fairbanks in 1939. Keeping ones self occupied during grief is fairly common and one way to bear the pain. But I don’t recall consciously having that purpose when things started getting so sped up for me.
I can solemnly swear that my demanding schedule does not stem from a need to feel important. I know I’m not important and I don’t mind. What I’d really like is a few uncommitted days to spend ruminating on how things got so out of control. And how to slow down this roller coaster ride. I’m going to start by saying NO.