I have pads of Post It notes stationed all over the house: several place in kitchen, my night stand, my bathroom, even my car. With so many things going on, creative ideas popping up whenever they feel like it, and my memory being what it is, they are as necessary to my survival as caffeine.
The problem is when I have a Post It but not a pen.
Or worse, when I have a crappy pen.
When I wrote my children’s book a couple of years ago I found a good pen for signing, one that writes smoothly and doesn’t smudge. I bought a box.
I liked them so much more than the pens I had been buying, and especially better than most of the ones you receive as advertising. I became a bit of a pen snob. My thoughts were too important, and my handwriting too atrocious, to struggle with crappy pens. So I strategically positioned my preferred pens around the house, where I could find them but my family could not (What’s that? I’m selfish? Sometimes).
Slowly though, my pens migrated all over the house, and not by me. Worse, I’m finding crappy pens in their place.
Perhaps it shouldn’t be, but it’s really aggravating.
You may be reading this and thinking, “Does she seriously think I CARE about her PEN PREFERENCES?” Stick with me, I do have a (ball)point.
Here’s the usual scenario: Get brilliant idea. Find Post It pads where I leave them. Start to pick up good pen but it’s not to be found. Wonder where my good pens are as I search through the pile of crappy ones until I dig up a good one, IF one is there. Finally settle for a crappy pen. Start to write down brilliant idea. Stare at Post It. Blink eyes. Rattle brain. Fume at myself for losing the brilliant idea while searching for a good pen.
So, I have heretofore banned all crappy pens from my kingdom and domain. Except the ones my husband loves, and those seem to stay in his office. How he does that is beyond me. I bought two boxes of my favorite pens and the crappy pens have been donated to a worthy cause.
Do I feel kind of silly? Truthfully, yes. But I consider it an investment in myself. Crappy pens mean lost ideas and sanity. Good pens mean I keep both.
Whatever it takes to help me focus.
And that’s really the bottom line for me. Why waste my extremely limited time and energy being frustrated by something I can easily and cheaply remedy?
Even low level frustration makes me more likely to snap at my family, or at least grumble and complain.
Frustration makes it harder to love well.
Loving well is worth a few extra bucks for good pens.
And reaching for a good pen keeps me from reaching for a sword.
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Creating Systems for Courageous Kindness
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