A truth universally acknowledged ...
Dr. Nick sat me down in the virtual chair yesterday, and rather astutely diagnosed the root of some of the symptoms I've been displaying - my anxiety, attention deficiency, malaise, weariness, listlessness, etc. Now, some of this is due to having a different schedule at the bookstore each week, an eventful and transitional summer, and certain tasks that have been hanging over my head like the sword of doom for months.
But some of this is due to the fact that I've had no place to work for months, and that my desk is currently housed in the dining room doubling as a buffet or sideboard. While that's been nice in some ways, like bring me 'round to seeing the benefits of purchasing such an item of furniture, it's been wrecking my state of mind.
Dr. Nick says, "You are suffering from a lack of workspace. You have to move your desk somewhere - anywhere, I don't care - where you can use it to work."
(We are still trying to get someone in to fix the roof, so that we can fix the ceiling in my office, so that I can work in the place where my desk usually is without DROWNING ANOTHER COMPUTER)
I knew immediately where the desk had to go - in my office, where my reading chair and overflowing table of books and magazines to read - and that I had to make a conscious effort to move things around so that I could stop avoiding the office.
So I went to Target to get more storage bins for the books and asundries. This is a difficult task for me, moving the stuff around, so I've been working a little, and then coming back to the computer for a break, then working again. Breathing.
I've run into an uncomfortable snag. I've run up against a real wall in my psyche. You see, one of the storage bins is sturdy, dark red, and solid. I totally balked at putting the books I mean to read in the next six months (read: stack of forty books acquired this year) in this bin - shutting them away, in a dark, solid container, where I COULD NOT SEE THEM. Even if I kept the bin beside my desk, accessible, I still wouldn't be able to see them even if I knew they were there.
I nearly had an anxiety attack on the spot. Like, if they were out of my sight they'd be totally out of my mind? (Let's be honest, would that be a bad thing? A horrendous crime? If I had a little peace of mind and wasn't constantly anxious about what I haven't read yet?)
It's like they were my children or something.
Fortunately, there IS a solution: one of my new bins is made of clear blue plastic. Very carefully, I placed my books in the bin in two rows: spines facing out, so I can SEE what they are, and KNOW where they are, at all times.
That's totally ridiculous, and I recognize it as a sign of a problem.
No, I don't want an intervention. My books and I are just fine. We're perfectly happy together.
Besides, if I keep the bin by the desk I can stack more books on top of it.
I'm off to continue gently clearing out clutter and making room to move the book table out, and the desk back in. Let's hope the act of making physical space helps me create some mental space as well.
The truth universally acknowledged? I have a book problem. So what.