On Tuesday night, I brought 3 days and 10 pages of notes to heel in this whacked out mind map. Even with my scattered brain forever chasing down The Meaning Of It All, I was able to rip the material and pin details to their categories. One night later, I had expanded this into a clean, 3-page document charting each week-long task between now and May 1, 2017. It’s typed. With headings. That makes it real, right?
Funny thing here that will surprise no one: As taxing as this is, my professional work has been hopping along with more efficiency than ever. The cross-pollination couldn’t be clearer. Organizing a writing project has fueled me to tackle those eat-that-frog tasks at work that I usually avoid until the last possible moment. Today, I made the penultimate round of revisions on a work assignment that isn’t due until mid-October, and it’s one I despise.
Inshallah, the momentum sustains. When it comes to providence, I’m starting to see that with each half step I take, it takes two towards me.
Shannon E. Williams 
I keep telling you, I’m not a feminist.
I grew up an only child on a ranch,
so I drove tractors, learned to ride.
When the truck wouldn’t start, I went to town
for parts. The man behind the counter
told me I couldn’t rebuild a carburetor.
I could: every carburetor on the place. That’s
necessity, not feminism.
I learned to do the books
after my husband left me and the debts
and the children. I shoveled snow and pitched hay
when the hired man didn’t come to work.
I learned how to pull a calf
when the vet was too busy. As I thought,
the cow did most of it herself; they’ve been
birthing alone for ten thousand years. Does
that make them feminists?
It’s not
that I don’t like men; I love them—when I can.
But I’ve stopped counting on them
to change my flats or open my doors.
That’s not feminism; that’s just good sense.
“Clara: In the Post Office” by Linda Hasselstrom