My Friend, the Egg Timer

 In my quest to lead a responsible life, and to acquit myself of many onerous but essential tasks, the egg timer is my tool of choice. I refer to that clockwork gizmo—predictably shaped like an egg or a broody hen--that you can set for a maximum of sixty minutes (if you’re cooking an ostrich egg). It ticks loudly as its inner mechanism unwinds, and lets out an ear-splitting buzz when the time is up. 

This humble tool keeps my life on track by fooling me into thinking that it, and not I, is responsible for deciding when I can stop working on some unpleasant task. I realize that I am the one who sets the timer, but such is the mind’s capacity for self-deception that I can trick myself, when the buzzer buzzes, into believing that a higher authority—God, my mother, the German nuns who educated me—has deemed my obligation met, at least for the present, and I am free to pick up my needlepoint or watch another episode of “Call My Agent.” 

Take, for example, the task I most dislike: preparing income tax returns. Not only does it deal with boring things like forms and numbers, but it is also scary—what if I make a mistake that sets the IRS hounds on my trail? The combination of boring and scary is conducive to procrastination, guilt, anxiety, more procrastination, and the need to file for an extension.  But I am glad to report that this morning, thanks to my egg timer, I made a start on it. 

After setting the timer for sixty minutes, I assembled my files, a pad of yellow stickies, some paper clips, a black pen, a red pen, a pencil, a stapler, last year’s calendar, and a calculator.  The timer’s cheerful ticking kept me company as I sorted and compiled medical expenses, charitable contributions, 1099s, and random bits of paper, and before I knew it the buzzer buzzed. I shoved the lot into a box to await tomorrow’s session and went for a walk with my dog  Bisou, feeling like a kid let out for recess. 

House cleaning is another task I dread. The prospect of cleaning the house, or even cleaning just one room, throws me into existential despair. How will I feel, on my death bed, about the hours of my “one and precious life” I spent cleaning? Who even knows what “cleaning” means? One might begin with dusting, then press on with wiping, polishing, sweeping, vacuuming, and disinfecting, and never be heard from again. 

Again, the trick is to think “by the hour” rather than “by the job.” If it’s a dusting day, I set my timer for sixty minutes and begin. Perhaps when the timer rings I’m still in the room where I began, in which case I must have done a thorough job. But no matter how far or how well I have dusted, the egg timer has spoken, and I obey. 

On days when the sidewalks are icy, or the snow forms huge balls on Bisou’s “feathers,” I exercise her by throwing balls for her indoors, an activity that she adores. For me, despite my love for her, throwing balls the length of our cottage until she gets tired is sheer tedium. I try to focus on the moment, to take pleasure in her pleasure, to remember that this is the least I can do for a being who brings me such comfort. But the truth is, I am bored out of my mind. How long must I do this before I can in good conscience stop? 

Here again, the egg timer saves me. I set it for fifteen minutes, and then ignore it as it ticks away. Knowing that it’s in charge lets me enter into a mindless zone in which I throw the ball, praise her as she retrieves it, throw, praise, and throw again until the buzzer jolts me out of my hypnotic state. Then I put the ball away, and Bisou collapses into blissful sleep. 

I also use a timer for meditation. If I didn’t, I would be opening one eye to check the time every two minutes. But here I use the timer on my phone, which emits a bucolic cricket sound that doesn’t make me jump out of my skin. I could use the phone timer for everything else, but I am fond of the loud, companionable ticking of the analog machine. 

What about writing? Heaven knows we writers need tricks to get us going and to make the task seem less hopeless. But I don’t use a timer for writing because, when I am in full avoidance mode, even setting it for five minutes feels overwhelming. What I do instead is take a nap, one during which I may or may not sleep, but during which I allow my mind to ramble through its various wastelands. Then I get up and go to the computer, having made a solemn promise to myself that I will write a one single solitary sentence, no more. Next thing I know, I’ve written paragraphs.

But for everything else, nothing beats the egg timer.

Bisou after chasing balls

 

House Cleaning, Part 2: Good Enough

The good fairy at my cradle gave me a couple of gifts for which I’m grateful. But the bad fairy did me a terrible turn: she instilled in me the conviction that whatever skill I tried to develop, especially the domestic arts, the result was never quite good enough.

Apparently, I am not alone. If the messages from readers of my post about house cleaning are any indication, swarms of bad fairies hover above the cradles of baby girls, and a few baby boys, raining domestic performance anxieties on their innocent heads.

Fortunately, one of you reminded me of the brilliant concept of “good enough.” The term originated with Donald Winnicott, a child psychologist who worried about parents (mostly mothers) tormented by the anxiety that they were falling short of the parenting ideal. Children, Winnicott reminded them, did not evolve to require perfect parents. What they need in order to thrive is mostly reasonable, well-intentioned, usually kind, generally stable, “good enough” mothers and fathers. What they don’t need is parents driven to neurosis by the compulsion to be perfect.

In light of Winnicott, Saint Benedict’s instruction to treat all utensils as if they were the vessels of the altar can seem neurosis-provoking. I may be able to wipe one glass as if it were a consecrated chalice, but a whole sinkful of dishes? Also in light of Winnicott, my compulsion to dust every single book and the shelf behind it was in fact counterproductive, since it led not to my having feelings of reverence towards those yellowing tomes, but to my wanting to throw them into the flames.

If you’re like me, the problem with never thinking that what you do is good enough is that, aside from making you crazy, it paralyzes you. Weary of aiming for, but never achieving, Martha Stewart-levels of domesticity, you may give up cleaning altogether and live in squalor.

The danger is especially critical for those of us who regularly take off our clothes in public—by which I mean paint, write, dance, play the tuba, or engage in any of those vulnerable-making practices known as THE ARTS. The road to the unwritten novel, the unpainted canvas, and the undanced dance is paved with visions of perfection. On the other hand, the road to any accomplishment is paved with that hard to achieve combination of humility and self acceptance that allows the artist, the would-be domestic goddess, and the parent to get something done.

As with everything else, it’s a matter of balance (and alas, balance is so not my style). “Good enough” doesn’t mean perfect, but it doesn’t mean sloppy, either. To me it means “good enough for me,” for who I am, for the moderate gifts that the good fairy bestowed on me at birth. And, as I oscillate on that endless tightrope between perfection and slovenliness, “good enough” also means forgiving myself when I occasionally (frequently) fall off.