Advice from a small town girl

Several weeks ago, when The Editor suggested that my column should have a name, we discussed several options. “Advice from a small town girl” seemed about the best possible choice from among several, some of which were downright weird, and most of which were boring.

But now I see the perfect title.

“It’s all about me.”

Because it is. I can’t crawl into your heads and talk about the issues you have with yourself and the world. I’m way too busy in my own head.

It’s not always pretty in there – kind of like my dining room table. We all know the people who have the perfectly decorated house, where no object would dare to be out of place. That would not be me.

My table (and my mind) are a dumping ground. No orderly filing system for me. When I walk into my house after a grueling day at the paper, anything I’ve accumulated during the day gets plunked down on the table. Usually right on top of whatever was plunked down the day before. And the day before that. In fact, the only time you can see the top of the table is when I know someone is coming to visit. If I have plenty of warning, I will actually put things away. If not, it all gets thrown into a box, which may or may not be retrieved after the visitors leave.

So it goes in my brain. All the input from each day just gets piled on top of the input from the day before, and the day before that and the day before that. Then I scoop it all into a box. The only problem with the stuff in my brain is that some of it falls on the floor on its way to the box. And some of it gets shuffled in with other stuff.

It’s confusing. And virtually impossible to sort out. So I begin each day hoping that somehow it will all come together in some way that makes sense.

The thing that is so surprising about the mess in my head is that sometimes I am pretty organized, like at work. Other times I’m INCREDIBLY organized, like when we’re setting up for our quilt show, or when I’m setting an agenda for a meeting.

Why can’t I be like that all the time?

I think it’s because total organization doesn’t leave time for creativity. Now, I’m no artist, but my brain likes to think I am. And if I don’t give it enough time to play, it gets cranky and uncooperative.

So I quilt. I play. I hang out with goofy dogs and cats that think they are mountain lions. I gaze at my gardens and think about what I’m going to do next. I have fun. I write silly columns that are all about me.