Untangling

Untangling: the “before” version.

I procrastinate. Even as I sit here, there is something else I am not doing. Eventually all of these undone things become a tangle that is nearly impossible to sort out without breaking them all. It requires delicate precise unweaving to extract just the flower that is about to bloom and let the remaining strands of thought rest, set aside until another day.

The particular thought I am unteasing this morning is about procrastinating, and why I do it. I find myself trying to untangle it from all those unhelpful hints that I have read about it, which were truly helpful only in that reading about them kept me from having to do the thing I was avoiding doing. Some voices say, thoughts such as procrastination are only negative emotions and associations getting in the way of the doing things. Others argue that breaking things into small bits and doing just one bit at a time makes the task less inhibiting. Others still argue that I need more motivation, that I must have a reward greater than the obstacle keeping me from acting. Granted, these bits of guidance guarantee success for some, but for me, they are just clutter, distractions in themselves, and they become a rat’s nest of thoughts, diverting me from the untangling of the matter at hand.

It occurs to me that I can think about the idea of doing the thing at hand, like thinking about doing my lunch dishes. And I consider that idea for some time, promising myself some delectable delicacy like chocolate if I do, but then, all that thinking about chocolate leads me to leap past dishes and go straight for the chocolate. And as I break off a bit of dark creamy chocolate I move on in my thoughts, telling myself I must break up the task into smaller bits, making it more doable by doing only one bit at a time. First, I think, I must carry the dishes to the sink, but while reaching for the faucet, I see a squirrel carrying palm fodder up the magnolia tree in my front yard. She’s nesting, I think, noting the paunchiness of her gray fluffy abdomen. The faucet and dishes and sink forgotten, I decide to get my camera. After a while, I notice the chocolate on the table and then remember the dishes, and sit down for another bite of chocolate. Somewhere in here, I think, there must be some negative emotions at play. I imagine my sister coming home, seeing my lunch dishes undone and thinking, what has she been doing all day? Anything at all? Can I even muster up some guilt? No. Afraid not. The dishes will sit there until later. Maybe I’ll do them before dinner. So many other things are calling me. What is that squirrel doing now?

And that’s how it goes as I break off one more bit of chocolate before stashing it in the freezer again. As I sit down again, I realize that I am again thinking about doing dishes now when I used to just set them down and walk on to whatever was next—without a thought. The confines of these walls, the tidy pressures they impose, which have caused me to slow down, are now causing me to examine things I do—and don’t do—in more detail. Those thoughts become cluttered, too. They need to be sorted.

So I sort through it all. In detail. I think about the warm water flowing over my hands, the soap bubbles glistening, the slinking of plates and chiming of silverware as I stack them in the dish drainer. Though the window, I see my neighbor walking her little dog as it nuzzles about in my geraniums and then ambles down the sidewalk leading my neighbor along. Oh, the faucet. I turn off the water. And dry my hands, noticing that I’ve just moved from detailed thought to actual doing.

Once the tangle is unteased, and for me, seen in delicious detail, a stillness settles in. Such a simple thing to do. Ah, peace.