I suppose that it rather befits this blog post's theme that I should begin to hurriedly scribble its opening sentences in a moment snatched from the morning routine, waiting for my tea to cool & my cardigan to materialise , the rattle of the rubbish lorry & the rhythmical pattering of the rain doing little to lure me outside to partake in this rainy Wednesday, visible in the grey light that spills over the windowsill from a chink in the curtain, enough light in which to dress & navigate my spoon from bowl to mouth during breakfast. There is also a certain inevitability to my continuing to write it in the last ten minute of lunch hours behind fogged up windows of empty cafes on Fulham Road & tucked up in bedsocks when inspiration strikes & I should really be getting to sleep.
Time is something that features consistently & dominantly in our lives, in our wearing of watches, the glazed gazing at the seven minutes until the next train, two until I'm likely to be late for work (again) Many of my favourite writers have taken up this society-wide, centuries-old fascination, distorting the hands of the clock to attempt to represent a more genuine experience of our consciousness, often of the brevity of joy, the agonising endlessness of unrequited love, the blink-&-you'll-miss-it extra five minutes in bed of a morning & that excruciating last half an hour of your shift before you can clock off for the evening (both of which have been particularly resonant of late) If you're feeling similarly exhausted by temporal tribulations, you'll be pleased to know that I don't intend to dwell on the existential implications of our experience of time, but rather the practical ones, as I continue to wonder about the ways in which I am able to balance work schedules, domestic obligations & creative commitments. Starting working full time was initially so daunting because I was so wrapped up in the amount of my own time I would be sacrificing, time that manifested & represented personal freedom, a routine dictated by little other than the time at which I would have to leave the house for more milk, & bedtimes were when the film credits had started to roll. Forgetting my own feelings of safety & security within the cocoon of boarding school, a return to setting my alarm for the same time each morning, making sandwiches every night after dinner & before breakfast, has not been too difficult a transition (although occasionally that second alarm is required...!)
It is the time outside of that which is divided up for me into the commute, opening the shop, shelving, closing, that I am wondering & deciding how to re-purpose. When occasionally overwhelmed with the sense of a lack of control in my day-to-day role as an employee, I can often find myself in obsessive moods in which I am determined to reassert my authority through the medium of housework - ruthlessly culling the fridge of old jars of curry paste or fruit conserve, exhaustively hanging up the tangle of skirts & tights that have accumulated over the course of the week & heavily heaving the hoover up three flights of stairs to prod down the far side of the wardrobe. These things are regular features on the weekend schedules of many readers, I'm sure, & there is a certain satisfaction to be gained from conquering that dusting to-do list. It is also inevitable, however, that the physical exertion & sheer amount of time that these tasks consume also make their fulfilment fairly shallow & short-lived.
As a compulsive list maker & notebook filler, I also struggle to succumb to my need to make time for myself, often manifested physically & emotionally in becoming run down & burnt out, neglecting the benefits of a leisurely day doing nothing much besides reading my book & warming soup on the hob, mistaking relaxation for a lack of productivity. The importance of creative outlets such as aforementioned notebooks & this blog come into their own in this regard as a source of moments of solace & provider of a restorative energy that is quite unique to that final full stop or pressing of 'publish'. Even these opportunities I feel to be fragile however, as they become pressured by their representation of a self & ambitions far beyond those of work, the loud hailer through which I can declare to people that I am so much more than a girl behind a till & have so much more to offer than that which I can currently give. I must confess to having shrunk in the shadow of these expectations more than once of late, avoiding certain compositions for lack of confidence in my own abilities, something I am working to constantly improve upon.
I think that my conclusion from these (lengthy, sorry) musings is likely that a sense of balance & proportion is what is required, framing my weekend within the structure of easily sleeping until eleven, a lengthy breakfast & extended stint in pyjamas, a more savoured supper (my oven is - tentatively - fixed, Sunday veggie toadstool-in-the-hole anyone?) & pick from my Netflix recommendations forming the closed bracket of my days off. Taking a more considered approach, I am thinking increasingly of the study of my motivations behind the use of my time, be it that I feel obligated or that I partake & invest in things that contribute to my personal happiness. In accordance to my renewed commitment to the latter of these & to the scarcity of these hours of my very own, I am resolved to be thoughtful in the allocation of this time, investing it in more hours in bed, more pages of my latest book, more shared with those closest to me &, ultimately, more wholesome enjoyment from every day.
Inspired by Lyzi of Being Little's monthly goals, it is the considered use of my time that I will place an importance on this month, having waved a glad & soggy farewell to January, & I have already scheduled an afternoon wrapped up & rummaging through Battersea Boot Sale (where I have been particularly successful in the past!) tomorrow & yet another visit to Tate Modern's Paul Klee exhibit (a review, of sorts, of which may well crop up here imminently) next week.
I hope that you have the time to breathe & appreciate a small pleasure this weekend. Oh & if that is gained from twenty-five minutes of scrubbing at the bathtub then that's okay too.
Speak soon - O.
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