I never used to be a morning person. Oh, I still struggle to get out of bed every day, but I've come to appreciate (if not actually like) mornings. I especially like mornings that have colorful sunrises, like today. If I'd been sleeping, I'd have missed it.
A spectacular sunrise makes anything seem possible to me. I feel energized; alive. Even the cold wind on my face doesn't seem so brutal when I have such a vibrant backdrop. I mentally create lists of what I want to accomplish, and looking at all those colors at the beginning of a new day, I actually believe for a few brief moments that I will get through the list.
Of course, I never do. The colors wane, the vibrancy fades, and so does my determination. While there is a correlation between the colors fading and my resoluteness waning, it's because everything I do requires energy. Same with you, everything you do requires energy, too. Your supply is finite as well as mine, but there is a glaring difference along with the similarities.
I was thinking back to when my kids were little and we got them a swing set. It was used, and older, but the pieces, the structure was fine. It was a big one, too. It had 2 swings, a teeter-totter, a glider, a slide and monkey bars. I think it was about 15 feet wide, maybe more. It was quite faded from years making kids happy in the sun, though.
I decided I was going to paint the swing set, so I bought spray paint. Many cans of spray paint. Of course, painting the swing set involved moving all the steel poles, arranging them on the tarp, and sorting them by what colors I wanted to paint them. It took me a few days, but I got it done so my husband could assemble the swing set over the weekend. Back then, I was able to do more without resting as often.
Nowadays, I have to rest much more often, and for longer periods of time. Yes, of course, I'm older, but it's not because of that. I think back to what my mom could do at my age (and beyond), and there's no way I can do what she did. She walked all over the place (with ease), cut the grass, shoveled the driveway and sidewalk, painted rooms by herself, hung laundry outside to dry, cooked meals every day, and generally was just a dynamo. What? No, of course, she didn't do that all in the same day. She'd walk to my grandmother's house (a little bit more than a half mile away) and cut her grass, which was no small feat. My grandmother's yard was huge. Triple the width, and double the length of a regular city lot. That's roughly 100 feet across and 250 feet deep, and my grandmother didn't have a riding mower. Then, my mom would walk home again in time to cook dinner! Or she'd go to my grandmother's to take apart and clean the crystal chandelier with 17 million pieces. Or wash the woodwork.
Today, I sorted the laundry, put a load of towels in the washer, and had to sit down. I still need to do the breakfast dishes, finish putting away my clothes, figure out what I'm going to do with my shoes, and reassemble the craft room. That won't all get done today. The dishes will definitely get done, and I'll put away more of my clothes. Beyond that, I make no guarantees. All of it probably won't even get done this week. And that's one of the things I hate about this disease. So often there's an enormous gap between what I want to do, and what I can do. I want another cup of coffee, but that would involve walking to the kitchen. Eventually, I'll get another cup, but right now, I'm just sitting, recovering.
Each day I press on, sometimes pretending for a few moments that I'm still the me that I was, every time I make those lists.
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