There is nothing to do…

There is nothing to do here. There is nothing I need to do. I have showered and dressed, made my bed, made and eaten breakfast. Eventually, I will need to make myself lunch -- a sandwich, or reheated pasta from last night's dinner. Eventually, they will feed me dinner. I have no other chores. There is nothing to clean, nothing to organize. Nothing except my thoughts.

It would be easy to eat too much here -- already, I am fighting the urge to walk into town, buy groceries, offer to cook rice and curry for a dozen people. I am so habituated to that sort of work. At home, there are always people who need to be fed. And if it isn't my week to cook, there are still rooms to clean, the garden to weed, a hundred and one items to repair or build or or or. Maybe I should throw a party.

What's wrong with me?

If it weren't so hot, I would be tempted to go for a second walk. My body is used to more labor than this. There are no children to carry here.

Instead, I will lie in bed, read, make notes. I've just read a three-page piece by Henry Alford, "Appointment in Istanbul," which is very similar to a bit from my book, a casual betrayal, but also very different. I've made a few notes, thoughts sparked for potential new sections. Now, on to reading the second essay (from Best American Travel Writing 2010 -- why 2010? Because that's the year the library had).

I need to slow myself down. Stop and smell the roses. Try not to get stung.

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