Another week begins and I awoke startled at the magnitude of things that need to get done. At least my trip to San Francisco the latter part of the week will make me ultra-efficient on the former portion. But I have along list of tasks to complete by Wednesday.
But as I cross the tasks off the list and my life becomes a bit more seemingly manageable on a Monday mornings, as the juncos and finches feed at the thistle feeder (I cannot see the sunflower feeder around the corner, although a large flock of Cedar Waxwings passed through last week) and the dog slumbers in front of the fireplace. And we're supposed to be this highly intelligent species as we work our entire life to aspire to the being that domesticated dogs have always and solely known, as well as the birds outside. At what price does this level of intelligence come?
At least I enjoy what I'm doing, and can leverage my disdain for prior livelihoods to have arrived at a point of existential self-satisfaction.
Back to the salt mines.