Autumn weather in Wyoming can be anyone's guess. We could have had snow by now, or we could still have 80° come mid October. So far, this time autumn has been long and languid with the landscape slowly turning, becoming day by day more deeply saturated in shades of straw, honey, and amber. It's something like watching a painting change colors before your very eyes. No surprise, then, that I've taken to working from the corner of the dining nook, propped with pillows here on the banquette next to the window that faces the pasture, so as not to lose sight of the show.
Because I tend to quickly lose sight of the show, what with all the demands of the day and night (Do teenagers ever go to bed?). I glance at the big autumn splash, I'm in awe of the wild ta-da! But, then, I'm on to the next thing, often by the next moment, with no end in sight. Thus this perch that nearly has my nose to the glass. Hang on there, take a look. A good long look.
Like you, I can't toss the daily list in order to dance willy-nilly in the scattered yellow leaves all day, but I can frame my work day with a mind for pace and intention, for focus and steady. For a start and then an end. It's the end that gets tricky. For me, the end can run away and never come back. It can run past late afternoon, through dinner, and on into evening. It can run into the weekend, the details of work seeping through the fabric of my days, dyeing all of it in monotone, a trodden one-note hum. Work, work, then some more. But, gracious, we can't live by a constant exhale.
So, as I draft, write, compose, plan, as I work, I glance out the window, and I remember. Remember to mind the ending of my days. Remember to, at the appointed time, close the computer, put away the pencils, dust the drafting board. Remember to open the door, step outside, and enjoy the show.