Except for my friend Liz, who pre-mails food supplies to her vacation address and packs a clam rake in her luggage, I’m the most organized person I know. I make lists; I plot my garden on graph paper (though another gardening friend once told me this was very geeky); I group errands together so that they make sense logistically.
Like most organized people, I like structure. When I changed jobs from marketing research, where what you do depends on what the marketing people ask you to do, to marketing, it was very difficult at first. I had to make up my own job, my own structure. Once I got used to it, though, I realized I could never go back. It was good for me.
The book I called Celebrating Time, on which the first year of this blog was based, was very structured. What I wrote each day was determined by what people in the past had celebrated on that day, what saint’s day or season it was, or by the astrological sign of that day. The structure told me what to write.
This year, I’m trying something different. There is essentially no structure, except that of writing every day. Sometimes I’ll regress, sticking in a composer’s birthday or an interesting person’s death, but mostly I’m winging it. Just like a marketing job.
It’s good for me.
But I felt a bit wistful when I read Curtis’s comment the other day. “What happened to Candlemas and Punxatawny Phil?” he wrote. So here, for Curtis (and my former self), is a sweet little tart for Runeberg’s Day.