Fighting Fear of Boredom
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Often I say
that I am never bored. It’s true. Always I find plenty to do, things that I
enjoy and want to do. Fortunately, I grew up learning to like whatever I am
doing. I give credit to the good Sisters at St. Joseph’s. Even today I take
pleasure in plunging my hands into warm dishwater or ironing creases into my
cotton pants.
I’m not pure
or perfect. I dislike touching sandpaper and a lot of things in my home would
be better detailed had I not skipped a crucial step in a process of smoothing.
I manage to rationalize ways to avoid a good number of my dislikes.
My new house,
to which I will move, is finished. Before I move, two things need to happen.
The patio roof needs to be built to protect my patio furniture from mountain UV
rays, severe year round, not to mention sun and rain. And, my little section of
yard must be fenced, to keep Lola, my pooch of various pedigree, from stress.
The owners
of my new casita rescue dogs. Lola is quite happy, alone, protecting me and her
own little kingdom, behind a wall. Or a wrought iron fence. The fence will keep
Lola in and the other dogs out, although only a couple at a time are allowed in
the common area.
Consequently,
it will be at least another month before I can finish my move. I’ve packed and
moved every single thing that can be pre-moved and am living with my Buddha
bowl, metaphorically. It’s not that bad, but every other day I realize I should
have kept this or that or the other thing.
I’ve run out
of things to do, to pack, to paint, to renovate, pre-move. At the beginning of
the month, did you hear the calendar page turn and look out to see the leaves
on the Fresno trees turn golden overnight? Did you hear me wailing, “October
will go down in my personal history as the only month in which I was ever
bored.”?
In my
family, we do not do boredom. Thank you, Sister Mary John B. Thank you,
Grandma.
Ask my
children. They will tell you. Once and once only, each of them said, “Mom, I am
bored.’” I swiveled my head and squatted down to their level, and gently said,
“Oh, good. Here is a list of things with which I need you to help me.”
My kids
might tell this story a little differently. They swear that my brown eyes
turned flashing red and green, that my teeth grew into fangs, my fingers into
claws and I exuded the stench of a fiery pit, as I gave them orders fit for
road workers from a Louisiana prison in the 1800s, complete with snaps of a
bull whip. Don’t you believe it. They made up their story. Pure fantasy. Fangs
and claws, indeed.
When I was a
child, boredom was not yet a popular concept. My words were, “I don’t have
anything to do.” My Grandma was matter of fact. “Good. Start with washing and
oiling and polishing the base boards.” In our 1920’s farm house, every room had
base boards, about six inches high.
Interestingly,
although I still did all the jobs Grandma gave me to do, I never again ran out
of things to do on my own. Nor did my own children ever more than once suffer
from ubiquitous boredom.
Along about
the first part of October, I began fearing boredom. To counteract the fear, I
gave myself a job. Washing windows. My house has more windows than walls. I
live outside while inside. There are eleven large arched sets of windows to
wash. Typically, this can take several days.
And it did. I
eked out window washing three days. Along with other chores and opportunities
which seemed to magically pop up. Here it is the 10th of October,
and my fear of boredom is unfounded. Thus far.
Each
evening, like the good Shoemaker in the Fairy Tale, I lay out my job for
tomorrow, hoping the elves will come and finish the job for me. The elves have
not arrived yet, but I live in hope. And, so far, I’m not bored.
Sondra
Ashton
HWC: Looking
out my back door
October 10,
2024
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