I am not sure at which age my habit of "doing" kicked in--maybe somewhere around the fourth grade; it could have had something to do with my acquired twinkie habit at the time, which is like meth for grade school kids, or maybe that's just the age when children whose parents need intoxicants to function start acting out. Either way, I have to look back pretty far to find a time when I wasn't compelled to be in action, producing, creating or achieving.
With a couple periods of exception in my life, I have now entered a foreign time of not doing. Of having absolutely nothing TO do. No list. No assignments. No deadlines. No writing. No jewelry making. This is, of course, at my own choosing in preparation for Operation New Life. While I am aware that this window of time is about equivalent to a mili-second of my life, and that in a few weeks I will look back on it with nostalgia, it's very weird. Like being let go from a job, but without all the grief.
I don't even have a garden or a pet to tend to. That means I have now entered the stage of making things to do for myself. Maybe I will, in fact, end up writing some of the fiction I've unfortunately put on hold for awhile. Maybe I will become the world's greatest house cleaner, or finally clear out all the seasonal spider webs gathering in the eaves of my home.
Or maybe I will just rest and meditate and walk and imagine the person "coming to live with us" as E. puts it, who will change everything.