As I sat here, trying to block out the sound of my earworm (Runaway), wondering what exactly I was going to write about, I realized that I didn't need to filter out the background noise this time. It was trying to tell me something. It was my subject. It's not just the songs that clog my head all day, every day, that give me trouble focusing. It's everything. I am scattered all the time, and I miss the days when I could tune in on just one thing and give it my full attention. Technology isn't the cause of this problem, but it certainly is the catalyst. When is the last time you had a conversation with someone who didn't glance at their phone or computer or a nearby television a single time? When I was younger, I used to be considered a good listener. I haven't been one of those in many years. I'd like to relearn the skill of how to listen to someone talk without being more concerned with my answer than with what the person is telling me. I am a horrible conversationalist now, and I regret it. People are supremely interesting in their own right, without me thinking about other events, past or future, during the time they are talking, or checking Facebook (which I have already done once while writing this paragraph) or texts when I'm supposed to be listening. Am I the only one who feels shame at this behavior? I know that I do it, and it makes me feel like a bad friend. How can I stop? I can keep my phone in my purse, so that I can't feel it vibrate to distract me. I don't have to have a computer open, most of the time. I do feel anxious if I don't compulsively play games or puzzles on my iPad while I watch television, but maybe I can relearn how to crochet to keep my hands busy and work out stress instead. Television screens are everywhere, in nearly every restaurant, doctor's office, and other businesses I frequent. I usually want to block them out because they are on inane shows I would never watch of my own volition. But maybe I need to be big picture here, and say I want to block them out because they are on. Period.
I came home from Rotary with more spring in my step than I've had in a while, and I immediately set about deep cleaning my kitchen. I've been trying to keep it cleaner, but I was only getting dishes done and the same few surfaces wiped down and never digging beyond that. Over the next five hours I accomplished a solid three and a half hours of cleaning, plus a few sit-down breaks (because I know better). I finally put away stuff that had been pushed to the deepest recesses under the peninsula cabinets, and dusted all the way down to the bottom shelf where the teapot sits and waits for my younger daughter to visit. I scrubbed the backsplash with vinegar (hopefully not a mistake for the copper tiles), and used the same vinegar solution on the cabinet fronts and the floor. Not sure whether it was the right thing to use in every application, but it made me feel like I was getting things a lot cleaner than they had been in months. It wasn't just clean at the edges anymore, it was clean all the way to the back, underneath, inside, and out. This evening's tired feeling came with a sense of accomplishment, plus the ability to breathe easier for having a major task off of my plate.
I've gotten used to the sound of barking in my back yard again. For a while it grated on my nerves, but then the dogs went away and the silence broke my heart. They have been back for two weeks now, and I dislike the idea that they're only here temporarily. I learned today that while I'm able to separate out the individual voices, and I know when it's Bump, Elsa, Murray, or neighbor Barley barking, I can't always judge how close everyone is. At sunset this evening, I opened the back door with a can full of three dogs' worth of food, and found four dogs looking at me expectantly. I turned back around, and set the can back down, and texted to discern whether Barley had invited himself over, or had I missed the memo about a play date. Luckily it was the latter, and fence-jumping is not in Barley's bag of tricks. This is good, because if Barley learns to do it, he might remind Bump that he was really good at scaling six-foot fences himself at that age. We don't need to chase B all over the neighborhood again -- either B, for that matter.
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