Art Heals: Chores

At present in my apartment there is a sewing box on the open ironing board, ready to attack a fallen hem.  In the sink is the baking dish that I left soaking overnight.  A duster is waiting on the windowsill to chase the bunnies left over from Easter, dust bunnies, that is.   And my formerly curated shelves, closet and refrigerator (yes, I was a bit obsessive) are an unedited jumble that define the words higgledy piggledy.   Chores. 
Before WFH (working from home) I had little time for chores.  Because of this, they got done efficiently.  A swipe of the duster before I left my job.  A deeper clean on Saturday morning.  Grocery shopping on Sunday, from a list created Saturday night.  Clothes to the dry cleaner on the way to visit a museum, laundry while watching Meet the Press.  You get the picture.  Well, I still watch Meet the Press, but that is the only constant in this woeful tale.  Now even though I seem to be clocking days lasting far more than their allotted 24 hours, the chores remain a reproachful reminder of my lack of enthusiasm.  My lack of energy.  My lack of initiative.  Ok, my lack of excuses.
In my 42nd day of self-quarantine, I realize I need to analyze this reluctance to accomplish things.  I used to be a list maker, taking inordinate pleasure at crossing things off.  No lists now, and not just because I can’t find a scrap of paper in the kitchen junk drawer.  While I realize that the more I do in a day, the faster the day goes, I can’t seem to get up the go to get up and go.  Thinking deeply about this, while in a prone position on an increasingly uncomfortable couch (style over function?)  I reached a conclusion.  (I also reached for the Pringles, but we won’t go into that.) 

Having things left to do comforts me.  Somehow, irrationally, as I contemplate the endless, open-ended span of quarantine days to come, I am afraid of running out of things to do.
Irrational indeed. But it’s not the chores per se that spark this fear. With illimitable time on my hands, I am afraid I will run out of creativity, and thus out of hope.  Is the well of my resourcefulness bottomless?  I don’t want to find out, so I don’t send down the bucket.  As we navigate this new normal, coming up empty is not an option.
Here is Kerry Vander Meer, Potato Print.  Made for another time and another more serious subject, I see it as a metaphor for satiating hunger, for creativity and hope.  Art Heals.