Poke me just then and I’d probably cry. Or break your finger. Or both.
“Let’s paint that one last room,” I said three months ago.
But to paint you must move all the stuff. Then you must move it back. And somewhere along the way, that stuff, it should get organized. Or that’s what I told myself two months ago.
And so I found myself in the store all organizers unanimously think of as heaven. The store that as of one month ago I now call I-wish-someone-else-would-do-this hell.
There were baskets and bins, trays and totes, liners, dividers, drawers, and trunks. I went in with my last-minute measurements, my hodge-podge of ideas, and the determination that I was going to come out with something and get this thing done.
Inside I meandered. I measured. And then I grabbed this and that.
Then I wandered. And I worried. And I bought a bunch of stuff.
Stuff I wasn’t sure would work. Stuff I hoped might get me started. Stuff that I stacked at the top of our steps and ignored for the next thirty days.
But then, I organized one shelf. And the next day, I did two more.
And the pile at the top of the stairs got somewhat smaller, and a few shelves got a little less cluttered, and the walls of that one last room did get painted 3 months ago.
So I think I’ll celebrate.
This week may you also allow yourself to celebrate the small stuff. May sweeping successes not be your only measure of satisfaction, but may you let slow and steady progress gift you with a sense of victory too.