Done

Whoo. I try to post something roughly once a month here, but I have had my nose pressed so close to the grindstone that it's looking a lot blunter than before. For more than three months I worked away, day and night (well, day and evening) on a project I had to get done, tout de suite, and everything else took a back seat. Or a trunk. Or went spinning out the window on the breeze.

Now, it's done. There are a few small details left to sort out, and new projects have already begun (and old ones been resumed, and postponed Important Matters begun to be dealt with). But the weight has lifted off my shoulders in a tremendous way.

I love working. I love feeling a sense of purpose, pouring my heart and mind into something that seems important to me in some way, that will benefit someone, I hope, besides myself. (Though I'm happy if it benefits me, too.) But because my energy is so all-over-the-place, no matter how hard I try, it takes ages to get anything done, it wipes me out, it interferes with the things I need to do to keep healthy, and it worries me. That's the worst part—the worry.

But I almost don't care. I am grateful that I have some work of value in my life, even if it doesn't pay, even if it isn't what I hoped to do when I was young. I'm grateful that I have stayed with it long enough to have some skill. I'm grateful that it does have meaning for a few other people, too.

I've been sleeping ridiculously poorly lately. But I don't care. It screws my day up; I can only think a tiny bit and so get little work done. But I just feel so gall-darned pleased with everything. Even if I'm tired, even if I'm a little anxious, even if anything. I'm just glad to be alive.