Calendar Conversations

Photo: Cook Diary
(Jewish Apple Cake)

When I was in high school, I loved to bake. Not just stuff out of boxes and tubes (my current go-to when I can't convince my daughter to bake for me), but recipes I selected from cookbooks. My mom and I had a great deal -- I baked and she cleaned up -- one that allowed each of us to do the thing she preferred.

Cooking, on the other hand, is not something I've ever really enjoyed. I don't mind cooking, but I dislike meal planning and, as someone who works from home much of the time, I resent the time meal preparation takes out of my schedule. Once upon a time, putting together a great meal appealed to my creative side, but, with rare exceptions, those days are gone.

Shortly before my husband and I got married, I changed jobs, moving from a full-time position to a Monday-Thursday work week. Over time, that job also morphed into full-time, and Friday night dinners out became part of our routine. We'd become parents by then, so these dinners were never anything fancy, but they became a family tradition of sorts.

Initially, we aimed for restaurant consensus, and later, when my daughter was old enough, we began taking turns choosing the restaurant. She loved the power it gave her when she picked a restaurant, and I loved knowing we'd go somewhere she'd find something to her liking.

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As her schedule grew more hectic, I began to take the family calendar to dinner so we could plan the week ahead. This elicited groans some weeks, so I tried to keep it short, but remained firm in this part of our dinner agenda. Five minutes between ordering dinner and receiving our food was a key part of keeping everyone on track and creating a built-in reminder system for the week ahead. One of us always remembered the items we discussed (and it wasn't always me) and we rarely double-booked.

Eventually, my daughter grew out of this family tradition, preferring to just chill out on Friday evenings instead of going out to dinner (usually followed by our weekly Target run). Reluctant to let this family time go, my husband and I made a new rule: she could opt out of one dinner a month. By the time she finished high school, our Friday family dinners were once again becoming dinners for two, thanks to a busy schedule, a new driver's license and burgeoning independence.

In retrospect, these Friday dinners became the perfect metaphor for her growing up years: offering choices, letting out the reins a bit, communicating about necessary changes as she asserted her independence.

Making compromises. Showing respect. Finding the balance between her heart's desire and ours.

Last Friday was one of those rare Fridays where we all gathered for dinner out together. Accustomed to my calendar-itis, the only cringing my husband and daughter indulge in these days is of the inward variety, but I honestly don't think there's much of that either. The nine-year-old who reveled in picking the restaurant has become a nineteen-year-old who is a part of the conversation. A year in college has taught her to look beyond the week ahead, and the calendar conversation quickly morphed into to-do lists and necessary back-to-school errands.

A month from now, we'll be packing her up again, and she'll be heading to a place she's come to think of as another home. I remember those days and my own enthusiasm to get back to the friends who'd scattered across the country again after spring semester. Rather than being hurt or insulted by her excitement, I am instead happy that she has found a place worth going back to.

And just like that, my role has changed again. Through an intricate mix of Friday dinners and family vacations, movie nights and card games, informal chats and respect for the independence she's proven ready to handle, my job now is to make sure that home #1 is always a place she finds worth coming back to.

I'm up for that. Just don't ask me to cook on Friday.

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Strategic Clutter

Photo: qimono via Pixabay

Years ago, I participated in a blogging workshop with Sarah Reinhard at the Catholic Writers Online Conference. In it, Sarah suggested using our environment for inspiration when a topic for a post had failed to present itself.

Today is one of those days when a look around my office inspires little more than the urge to clean it, however I do have a few inspiration "nudges" that are part of the everyday scenery, no matter how cluttered. Here by design, they often help me out with a topic when no post is presenting itself.

Most mornings (at least the ones when I'm home alone), I say good morning to my Amazon Echo Dot.  Yes, I know she's not human (although the fact that I have to say, "Alexa" to activate her leads me to use female pronouns when I refer to her), but she tells me things like the weather and a fun fact about the day. The other week, for example, she told me it was the International Day of Happiness. Ironically, I'd already written a post about happiness that day, but thanks to Alexa, I found a great graphic to go with it. She'll also tell me the day and date, a helpful little trick when I'm on vacation and lose track.

Photo: Bucknell University Facebook page

But, since my office has no shortage of calendars, I can usually find that information on my own. On the wall behind my desk, I have a Bucknell calendar, featuring a different photo from my alma mater to brighten my office wall each month. In front of me is a smaller wall calendar purchased for the "just do it" kind of quote it provides each month. (March's quote was "Get it done." More on this month's quote next week). Finally, there's my page-a-day Happiness Project calendar, which has inspired several blog posts in the last several weeks.

There are those who prefer austere work spaces, and many organizers swear by "zones" and clear space. Although a clear desk top is my ultimate goal, being surrounded by inspiring things is also key. Things that bring back memories, make me smile and goad me into action are part of the ambience of my office, and too much clear space on walls and shelves feels as intimidating as a blank screen and no words to fill it.

Of course, clearing the stacks of paper around my sources of inspiration might give me a better view. Or, perhaps they provide a touch of irony. Either way, the next time I dig into the stuff on the desk, those sources of inspiration will be sticking around.

The Cure for the Common Frenzy

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I am generally an upbeat person, but lately, I've been feeling tired and a bit like I need a life preserver. I'm used to being busy, and although I'm busier than normal, that didn't feel like the whole problem.

Never satisfied not to analyze, I kept wondering and working at the knot, trying to figure out what tangled threads were at its core. Then last Friday, a beautiful, sunny day on the cusp of the weekend, as I drove down route 83, my endless to-do list scrolling through my head, it finally dawned on me.

I don't have any white space.

No, I haven't gone over the edge, or gone under completely (glub, glub). White space -- that beautiful stretch of calendar page that is blank and free from all scheduled obligation -- is my cure for the common frenzy. And while my days for the past couple of weeks have had patches of white space -- enough for a nap or a maybe even a decadent night of mindless television -- what I needed was a meadow-sized space. A whole day where I didn't have to be anywhere. I could have a to-do list -- no problem.

I just needed an entire 24-hour period full of white space to carve up as I saw fit.

While diagnosing my problem was a relief, looking at my calendar curtailed that excitement pretty quickly. I'm optimistic that I can stitch together a patchwork of white space in the week ahead, but my meadow is still a ways off.

Still, knowing what the problem is, now I can tackle it. The first step is to find the first white space day on my calendar and plant my flag. My day. My time. Nothing scheduled here. A big old X on the calendar, and that step is done. Yes, people can ask me to do things, and I'll be happy to add them to my list, and maybe even comply. As long as I don't have to be anywhere else to do it.

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The next step is to take a look at the things that are eating up my white space and decide if they've earned the right to gobble it up. Which commitments truly enrich me and which are simply white-space eating habits? That step is a lot more challenging, but it's the one that's likely to lead to a long-term solution.

Finally, I need to get from here to the X on my calendar. Knowing what's going on is a big relief -- a half-inflated life preserver, if you will -- and knowing my white space is there, waiting for me, helps, too. Until then, I have to protect my patchwork, and, barring emergencies, I think I can do that.

And finally finally, I need to accept that this is something that I need. That it's not selfish or childish or ridiculous. Yes, a full schedule with responsibilities is part of being an adult. But my goal is to be a happy adult, and that means that an honest assessment of what I can and cannot do is in order. And what I cannot do is operate indefinitely without white space.

How about you? How do you capture and preserve your white space?

Post-it Monday

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Photo credit: Ali Inay

This week is winter break, one of the teaser weeks during the semester where I can temporarily set aside class prep and tackle all the other things on my list -- both the "must do" items and the "want to do items." As this week approached, I found myself doing what I always do when I have a break coming up -- creating a superhuman list of things I want to get done.

This time, though, I did it a little differently. I pulled a page off the oversized Post-it calendar that's been sitting neglected in a corner of my office and pressed it into service. Undated and twelve inches by eighteen inches, the page has a column for each day of the week. Each column is just wide enough for a 2 x 2 Post-it Note and just long enough for five of these to fit without overlapping.

Mine looks a little different, but you get the idea.
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As break approached, and all the ambitious ideas began popping into my head, I set a pack of Post-it
Notes and a Sharpie marker on my desk. Every time I thought of something I wanted to do over break, I jotted the idea on a Post-it Note, and stuck it onto the calendar page, in no particular order.
I was not at all surprised when I overran the "neutral" column to the left of the labeled columns and began filling Monday's column.

By last Saturday, I had fifteen 2 x 2 sticky notes. Time to kick the plan into action.

What plan? Each day, I'll choose the sticky notes I want to tackle. By choosing tasks each morning instead of assigning them to specific days ahead of time, I get to choose the things I'm most motivated to do each day (this is supposed to be a break after all!) and increase the likelihood that they actually get done.

Saturday was a good day. Productive and a validation of my plan.

Yesterday, I woke to snow and the threat of worsening road conditions in an unspecified time frame. Concern over getting to and from church safely lay over me like an ice-covered cloak, and it stuck with me all day. I was tired and grouchy and didn't even look at the Post-it Notes, let alone select any. Instead, I puttered, napped and read a book. A novel. For fun. (I added that sticky note to the calendar today. Reading for fun should be on every vacation wish list).

So far, the plan is helping me to keep a clear head -- for the most part, anyway. It's definitely preferable to trying to remember everything and far superior to creating one, depressingly long to-do list that lingers long after break is over. There's something about a brightly colored Post-it Note that lowers the intimidation factor.

Today is blocked off for blogs and revisions -- a whole day to do the writing tasks that get short shrift during the semester. And this afternoon, I plan to crack open that novel again. Right after I rewrite the  previously posted blog I managed to delete last night.

But that's another story.

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A New View

I don't know how or why it popped up on my screen, but I just found a new layout for the calendar on my iPad that's just what I need. Usually I have the view set to month at a glance, but today I inexplicably pulled up a list view that gives me a day-by-day listing of activities on the left and the current day on the right, with scheduled activities blocked out in violet.

And white space. I love white space.

Since I have a slight tendency (okay, more than a slight tendency) to overbook myself, this visual is just lovely. I could feel myself relax when I saw the white space. So full of hope. So full of promise and opportunity - to do not just the things I need to do, but also the things I want to do.

Maintaining a balance between white space (unscheduled time) and violet space (scheduled time) is essential. And for those of us who have difficulty managing time, anything that reminds us that time isn't as infinite as it seems (visual cues, timer, throat-clearing spouse) can be a good thing. 

For me, time management issues most often arise out of a simple inability to accurately predict how long the things on my to-do list will take. Viewing time (almost literally) in terms of white space and violet space might just make me better at that. Those violet spaces take up a specific amount of room on the screen, helping me to visualize how big a bite they're likely to take out of my day.

Of course, this only works if I schedule things with some degree of accuracy. The default setting on my calendar blocks out an hour of time per task and I think I'm going to stick with that (unless, of course, I know that something will take longer).That way, if something takes less than an hour, I will have that most desirable of all bonuses: more time.

It's amazing the difference the view makes.

Just Do It!

Is it just me, or do you find the preparation process for a task you don't want to do exhausting?

It's kind of ridiculous, actually. If I just parked myself in the chair, or grabbed the dust cloth or sorted the papers or walked into the kitchen and started already, it would be so much easier.

Instead, I find multitudes of other things to do. Sometimes they're more interesting, sometimes they're truly mundane. Sometimes they're just there.

Or I make excuses. I'm too tired to fully concentrate. I don't really have enough time to do it well. I don't really have everything I need to do it the right way.

Is it just me, or does it smell like perfectionism in here?

Doing it fully, doing it well and doing it right should be good things, but instead, they're often obstacles to doing it at all. Not everything requires a preparation process, and inserting one by means of delays or excuses is often simple avoidance dressed up in evening clothes.

The irony is that the longer we "prepare" by avoiding, the farther away we get from doing it fully, doing it well or doing it right. We end up doing it in a hurry and disappointing ourselves with the outcome, but we've created built-in ego protection. No wonder it's not good. I did it in a hurry.

Ah yes. The stink of perfectionism.

Really, how much physical preparation does it take to start revisions? Dust the living room? Go through that stack of papers? Cook dinner?

Zip.

But the mental gymnastics are amazing. Olympics-worthy.

So yesterday, I decided to short-circuit them. The combination of annoyance with myself, frustration and pure guilt triple-teamed me and made me do what I know works - especially when I'm being triple-teamed.

I downsized, choosing one task from each of two competing categories (household and writing). And I wrote the designated tasks on my calendar. For today.

And I did them.

The funny thing is, getting started is the hard part - the hurdle I need to clear to get to the straightaway ahead. You'd think I'd remember from one time to the next that once I clear the hurdle, there's usually an unobstructed (if slightly rocky and hilly) path on the other side.

And I do remember. It's just that the hurdle is so high that I think I need to prepare to clear it, when really, all I need to do is lower the hurdle. Sit in the chair. Grab the dust cloth. Sort the papers. Walk into the kitchen.

Crumple up the perfectionism and toss it in the trash.

Now that's preparation.