In trying to manage my time better, perhaps I've been going about things the wrong way. My friend Eleanor once asked, when I said something about it, is time really something to be managed?
I've always treated it as such -- a force of nature to conquer, an enemy to dominate, a closing door through which I must race, sliding on the ground and nearly getting crushed in order to slip through like Princess Leia and company in that scene on the Death Star.
But in striving to manage, conquer, overcome time, am I not being kind to myself? That's something else Eleanor reminds me that I need to do. Be kind to myself. And it occurs to me that in attempting to regiment my time too closely, I am being strict, militaristic, unkind.
And yet what's a single mom with a demanding job to do? There are kids to feed, bills to pay, reports to write. There is a body to keep in shape, hair to dye, scores of fingernails and toenails (mine and little ones) to keep cut. There is laundry to do, dishes to wash, floors to sweep.
I don't have the answers. But maybe I'm finally starting to ask the right questions.