Food for Thought . . .

This morning, I looked at the laundry, looked out the window at the weedy garden, looked at the pile of papers on my dining room table.

I had a bit of a meltdown, thinking of all that had to be done in the next few days. (Good grief -- convention is in 4 days and I still have to write my speech and find shoes, among about a million other things!)

I started to cry a little and whined, "Why do I think I can do all these things?"

Clay said, "The better question is, why do you think you have to?"

Hmmm.

Who needs a counselor when you live with Mr. Smarty?

Peace.