It’s October and my garden beds are overrun by dead and dying annuals. I breathe a sigh of relief that the tedium of weeding and fighting ivy growing out of control into every crack of everything is soon over.
When I plant things in the spring, I immediately long for the fall when everything will be over.
I need a deadline. My anxiety about personal failure needs a finish line, a time when I can cease worrying about when things will fall apart so badly that I can’t control the outcome. Give me a deadline; give me the markers for success.
Give me a finish line.