It’s a little after 8 in the morning, and I’ve just put the final tweaks on an NPR story. It’s a wonderful feeling to work and work, push and push, and then–poof!–the story’s done and there it is. I like working in intense bursts that actually end with a real sense of completion.

At home my desk sits directly in front of a window that looks out to mountains over our back gardens. The early daffodils in those gardens are just beginning to pop open, the day lilies have begun to peak out of the ground, the lawn is greening, there’s a blue bird perched on the fence. Behind everything sits Little North Mountain, a low ridge that runs for miles along one side of the Shenandoah Valley. Today it is decked with cloud shadows.

Even though its a bit cold and windy, I’d like nothing better than to get outside today. Those back gardens need attention! Charlie and I let our flowers go to seed in the fall so the birds will have extra winter food, but it’s now time to clear them out. There’s early weeding to be done and beds that could use a good aerating with a garden fork.

Before I got sober, I used to put tremendous pressure on myself to get everything done as soon as it needed doing. Before I got sober, I would have gone to work more aware of what I wasn’t going to get done today, then anticipatory of what I was going to  get done. Such silliness. It’s Thursday, I’ve a new story to start, and the gardens aren’t going anywhere. Flowers grew for millions of years perfectly well without my assistance.

And you know, if I let those weeds grow for another couple of days, they’ll be all that much easier to grab hold of. Every thing has its season; every day has its tasks. And I had to become a substance abuser in order to be able to accept the simple, simple truth of this. I can’t control a lot about the way my days are, but I sure can control the amount of fun I have–and the amount of satisfaction I get–through living them.