During this season of my life, I do my weekly planning on Thursdays. On Thursday mornings, I sit down with my calendar and open a new planner page and think about the next Monday to Sunday week. What would make it a good week in various spheres of life? I tend to emerge from this with a better sense of what needs to happen, and what I’d like to see happen, which makes me feel a lot more calm about the upcoming week. The week will be busy but doable. Or at least that’s the goal! I also saw where, potentially, a fun little adventure might fit in, which got me excited to organize my week to make that possible.
One of my Tranquility by Tuesday rules is to “Plan on Fridays” and I do think Friday works for many people, as it tends to be a lighter day. Fridays have been a little harder, structurally, for me lately, so I do Thursday. The time doesn’t matter so much as the consistency, though I do find that for many people the key is to do this planning before the weekend so you don’t go into the weekend wondering what’s coming up. I tend to feel a little anxious about my schedule for the upcoming week until I work all this out. And I don’t want any of that anxiety festering over the weekend! I think that knowing Monday by the time you leave Friday helps with any Sunday Scaries people tend to feel. That’s why I tend not to recommend Sunday planning. But it is better to plan than not to plan, so if Sunday is best for someone, so be it.
Anyway, as of 9:30 a.m. that is all done! I need to make the activity/driving schedule for the upcoming week, but that tends to happen on Friday as all the information comes in. I know the general outline.
In the meantime, here’s another sonnet from my sonnet-writing project, called “Waking”:
Along the road, a single tree is bright
and crimson, all amid the soggy green.
The road is slick. The rain that fell all night,
instead of washing all the morning clean,
has made a mess of mud and crumbled leaves
all stacked up in the gutters. Puddles grow
as down my windshield, all the water weaves
a path. The wipers rock a beat. I know
some days the world seems changed. I am not sure
just why, or what I dreamt the night before.
Some days in morning all the ghosts obscure
the normal ceaseless ticking. Something more
has happened, but not really. Just a hint
of magic — then I wonder where it went.
