Monday, November 9, 2020

One sign of my relief over this election? The fact that I let the housework slide this weekend. I did not dust or vacuum or mop. Instead, I worked outside on my dirt pile, took a long walk with Tom, watched a football game with my son, drank beer beside a campfire, read an Iris Murdoch novel . . .  

Of course, the tension is ramping up again, with the Monster's baseless-lies campaign, his cronies' refusal to cooperate or be gracious, the pettiness and the threats; and maybe my housework anxiety will ramp up alongside it. Clearly my brain sees housework as a way for me to exert agency at a time when the world otherwise feels out of my control. And I don't deny that allowing myself this sensation of control has helped to steady me, as annoying as it might be to my over-cleaned housemates.

We had a strangely warm weekend, and the warmth will continue into the first half of the week. I'd like to ride my bike, except that I've got a flat tire that Tom keeps forgetting to pump up. So I'll walk instead, and do some editing, and try to catch up on Byron, and watch the little birds discover the feeding station I've set up in the back garden. This weekend I'll be leading the second session of my "New England Bards" writing retreat, so I'll spend time reacquainting myself with its centerpiece Carruth and Kenyon poems. And I will finish the housework . . . ideally, in a low-key, easygoing way.

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