I have a dysfunctional relationship with time. We just don’t understand each other. I think I’m managing the clock wisely, only to discover when I slide behind the steering wheel and glance at the clock on the dash that I have a mere six minutes to get to the orthodontist’s office across town, not the 16 minutes I thought I had budgeted. What, exactly, happened to those ten minutes?
The thing is that I think I’m using my time wisely. I seldom sit down in front of the tv, I don’t eat lunch or have afternoon tea without a pen or pencil in hand and a book open in front of me. But what do I accomplish? It seems like very little.
This is especially true of my artistic endeavors. Yesterday, I decided to create a card with a technique I came across on Pinterest. Yeah, right. I have a stamped element I may be able to salvage for something in the future. In my Christmas stocking, I got teeny little canvases. Oooh, I have a big plan for those, but so far, nothing is going according to. And today, I decided to start in on a bracelet I’ve been wanting to make for months. What did I end up with? A button on a string and a knotted, twisted, tangled piece of beading thread about the size of a cockroach.
If I saw no value in the process — pining only for product — I’d be depressed. As it is, I’m a little more than slightly irritated.
So I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, salvage what I can, make new attempts when time allows (humph), and apply what I’ve learned through my mistakes to the next go-round.