In my world, bad days can be measured in catastrophes. They can also be measured in emptiness.
I had an empty day.
I stared into nothing, looked up and found that it was hours later. I do not remember the time in between.
This was the kind of day when I would have, once upon a time, locked myself in a room and read and written until the mood passed. I would have tried to find the words to communicate the disconnected fuzzy feeling in my brain until it made some sense… or until it went away.
I had an empty day.
In my life I have developed a lot of tricks to dealing with my personality quirks. I don’t recognize people, don’t remember names, can’t remember what I wore last week, cannot tell you the names of my assistant’s children or grandchildren… etc., etc. I can recall entire conversations almost word for word, pull comments made at a staff meeting last year from my memory, concentrate on several things at once with good recall… etc., etc.
My productivity levels are sometimes a roller coaster. I have my really good days and I have my mediocre days. But, as a friend is fond of telling me, “Your ‘early’ is other people’s ‘normal.’ Your ‘slow’ is other people’s ‘busy.'” I judge myself against my most workaholic, sprinting, frenzied best and often come up short.
I fill my days with things to do because that’s the way I ensure that things get done. The more I attempt, the more I accomplish. Clearing my schedule only means that the few things that remain on it won’t get done. I know myself.
My empty days are few and far between. They are the aberration, the pause, the moment between breaths, that instant before you start running again.
I had an empty day. And now it’s over.
Photo via http://www.flickr.com/photos/36495803@N05/8270154601/
