On to-do lists, the guilt that can come with them, and how I’m making my days more about quality over quantity

Dear friend,

There is a basket in my house that seems to have a way of collecting things.

Inside are things that were supposed to be fixed a long time ago.

A pair of pants that my husband tore. A little something that needs glue. A few odds and ends I put away with every intention of dealing with them the next time I had a minute.

The trouble is, I seem to have an endless supply of things that need doing and a rather questionable understanding of how long it will take me to get around to them.

Every so often, I look through the basket, decide today is not the day, and carry on with whatever else has caught my attention.

It’s a very efficient system, really. Nothing gets fixed, but at least everything has a home.

Well, mostly.

Because if you were to follow me around the house for a day, you’d soon discover that the basket is only a small part of the operation.

The choreography of getting things done

I have an ADHD brain, which means my approach to a to-do list probably looks a little different from what they teach you in those productivity books.

My days are less of a straight line and more of a choreographed dance.

I’ll walk into a room to put something away and notice something else that needs doing. So I start that. Which reminds me of something I meant to do yesterday. I get halfway through that job before remembering the original reason I walked into the room in the first place.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I’ll start a load of laundry (the homemade laundry whitener and soap I’ve been using), answer a message, move something out to the garage, and remember that I never finished the thing I started on Monday.

It’s a lot of back and forth.

Before I know it, I’ve left a trail of evidence throughout the house.

A random drawer is hanging open. There’s a collection of things on the kitchen table that don’t belong there. Something is sitting on the stairs because it needs to go upstairs, and something else is by the back door because the next time I head to the barn, I can take it with me.

At least, that’s the plan.

I’ve apparently appointed every flat surface in the house as a temporary holding area, and every open drawer as a gentle reminder that I haven’t finished what I started.

I’ll get to it on my next pass through.

And I do, eventually. Usually.

I’m leaving myself breadcrumbs, really. The trouble is, some days I seem to be leaving breadcrumbs for six different versions of myself, and none of us can quite remember who was supposed to do what.

But somewhere in the middle of all that back and forth, things get done. Maybe not in the order I planned. Maybe not before I’ve started three other jobs. But eventually, the table clears, the things find their homes, and whatever I set by the back door three days ago finally makes it to the barn.

There is a particular satisfaction in that last part.

And every once in a while, I’ll stop and look around at everything I’ve been doing and think, How in the world does this person get anything done?

Sometimes I’m genuinely amazed. Other times I’m thoroughly confused. Usually, it’s a little of both.

Because somehow, between the open drawers, the things scattered across the table, the projects I started and the ones I remembered halfway through doing something else, an awful lot gets accomplished.

I couldn’t always tell you exactly how I got from one thing to the next. I just know that eventually, the laundry is folded, the supper is made, the project is finished, and the thing I set by the back door three days ago finally makes it to the barn.

It’s not always pretty to watch the process unfold. But the results have a way of surprising even me.

The trouble with a running list

I love a good list. I love the satisfaction of crossing something off, and I especially love a project with a clear beginning and an end.

Give me a shelf to build, a pantry to organize, or something useful to make, and I’m perfectly happy to spend an afternoon at it.

But somewhere along the way, the list can become less of a helpful tool and more of a running account of everything I haven’t done.

The little things start to add up.

The sweater that needs mending (get my sewing basics). The garden tools that should have been cleaned and put away. The recipe I wanted to write down before I forgot it. The project I started with great enthusiasm and then promptly forgot about when something else caught my attention.

None of these things is particularly important on its own. Together, though, they can make an ordinary Tuesday feel like you’re already behind.

I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to turn the things we love into another source of pressure.

I love making things with my hands. I love using what we have, repairing what we can, and finding a second life for something that might otherwise be thrown away. I love a home where things are useful and where a little wear and tear is not considered a catastrophe.

But I don’t want to spend my days feeling guilty about all the useful things I haven’t managed to do.

There’s a difference between wanting to care for what we have and believing we must be doing something productive every minute of the day.

I’m still learning where that line is.

And I’m learning that an unfinished checklist doesn’t necessarily mean an unproductive day. Sometimes the list doesn’t account for the five other things that needed attention along the way. Sometimes the work happened, just not in the order I intended.

And sometimes, of course, I really did just get distracted and leave a drawer open for three days.

Both things can be true.

A little mending goes a long way

One of the things I appreciate about older ways of living is the assumption that things are worth keeping.

A good wool sweater gets mended. A wooden chair gets repaired. A worn table gets another coat of oil instead of being replaced because it no longer looks new.

There is something lovely about that kind of care. It asks us to pay attention. To learn a skill. To slow down long enough to notice that a thing still has plenty of life left in it.

And often, the repair itself is not nearly as difficult as we imagined.

The button takes five minutes. The loose handle needs one screwdriver. The little tear in the apron only needs a needle and thread.

Sometimes the hardest part is simply beginning.

So I’ve been trying to make a small distinction: I don’t have to fix everything, but I can fix one thing.

One button while supper simmers. One shelf on a quiet Saturday morning. One little project finished before I start three more.

Not because the house needs to be perfect, but because there is a particular satisfaction in looking after the things that have looked after us.

And because, every now and then, it feels good to finish something.

I don’t think we need to turn mending into another grand project, either. We don’t need a beautifully labeled basket, a color-coded plan, or an entire Saturday devoted to becoming a more organized person.

Sometimes we just need to pick up the needle and thread.

Or put the thing on the stairs where it belongs.

I’ll let you guess which one is more likely to happen first around here.

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Before winter settles in

October is a funny month around the farm.

There is still plenty to do outside, even as the weather starts reminding us that our time is limited. There are garden tools to clean, things to bring in, supplies to gather, and all the small preparations that make winter a little easier when it finally arrives. Making sure our greens are kept fresh is just one of the ways we welcome the season.

It is tempting to treat these last mild days as a race against the weather.

I know I do it.

There are things I meant to do in the summer. Things I thought I’d get to after harvest. Things I put off until I had a little more time.

And now here we are, with another season knocking at the door.

But I’ve also learned that the work will never be entirely finished. There will always be another corner to tidy, another project to begin, another thing I wish I had done before the ground froze.

The goal cannot be to finish every last thing before winter. If it were, I suspect we’d all be working until Christmas.

Instead, I’m asking myself a different question: What would make life a little easier, a little warmer, or a little more useful in the weeks ahead?

Maybe it’s getting the mudroom in order before the boots and coats pile up. Maybe it’s making a batch of soup for the freezer. Maybe it’s finally repairing the thing that has been bothering you every time you walk past it.

Or maybe it’s deciding that the project can wait, and sitting down with a cup of coffee while the afternoon light comes through the kitchen window.

That counts, too.

Not everything deserves our immediate attention. Not every unfinished project is an emergency. And not every quiet afternoon needs to be justified by how much we managed to accomplish.

Sometimes the most useful thing we can do is decide what actually matters and let the rest wait its turn.

I’m not particularly good at this yet, but I’m working on it.

A little room to make something

There is something else I’ve come to appreciate about this time of year.

Every fall, we seem to find ourselves with about a week of downtime. A little pocket of breathing room between the busy seasons. And I don’t take it for granted.

On a farm, you learn not to assume that a quiet stretch will last very long. There is always something waiting around the corner, and the weather, the animals, and the work have a way of making their own plans.

So when that week comes, I try to leave a little room for it.

This year, I’m hoping to spend some of it willow weaving.

I’ve been weaving willow for a few years now, and there is something about sitting down with a bundle of sticks and slowly coaxing them into something useful that I find awfully satisfying.

Of course, this is where my particular brand of choreography may get in the way.

Because what I’d really love is a few solid days of uninterrupted creative willow magic. Just me, my basket tools, a great big pile of sticks, and Frank Sinatra playing in the background.

Ah, doesn’t that sound lovely?

No running back into the house to grab something. No remembering three other jobs halfway through the first one. No setting down a tool and then spending fifteen minutes trying to remember where I put it.

Just the willow, the weaving, the music, and enough time to settle into the work and see where it takes me.

Whether I’ll actually manage to pull off that idyllic little scene remains to be seen.

But I’m going to try.

And perhaps that’s part of what this quieter week is for. Not necessarily catching up on every little thing I’ve left undone, but making room for something I want to do. Something that doesn’t need to be checked off a list or justified by how useful it is.

Sometimes it’s enough to make something beautiful with your hands, listen to a few old songs, and let the afternoon unfold without keeping track of every minute.

I’ll probably still have a basket of things waiting for me somewhere.

But for a few days, I’m hoping the willow gets most of my attention.

Read more about my willow work:

• Preparing to Weave with Willow
• How to Create a Rustic Willow Fence

The basket can wait

I still have the basket.

I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

There are probably things in there that I won’t get to until spring, and at least one thing that will turn out to be beyond repair when I finally take a proper look at it.

But this week, I might pull out one small thing and fix it.

Just one.

I think there’s something to be said for learning to care for our homes without making them our masters. For doing the work that matters without believing every unfinished task is a personal failure. For making useful things, keeping old things going, and knowing when to put the tools away.

A well-loved home will always have a few unfinished corners. A well-lived life probably will, too.

And perhaps there’s a little grace to be found in that.

We can care about doing things well without needing to do everything perfectly. We can be proud of what we’ve accomplished and still acknowledge the things we’ve left undone. We can find satisfaction in a finished project without treating every unfinished one as evidence that we’ve somehow fallen short.

So if you have a basket like mine, a collection of things on the table, or a project that’s been waiting patiently for your attention, perhaps this is your permission to choose one.

Or leave them all alone for another week.

The work will be there tomorrow.

And goodness knows, there is enough of it to go around.

Sending love from our little corner of the world 🙂