Molehills out of Mountains

My computer desk is at a window, the view from which really needed perking up.  Yesterday I finally replaced the unsightly, open storage shelf.  This has dramatically improved my “outlook!”  (Get it?)

I vowed, on this sunny Saturday, to lean back and relish my cleaned-up view.  And I am; it’s great.  Now, however, I find my eyes diverting to dead plants, grimy chairs, and a fresh molehill every morning.

It’s been a cold January, and I don’t like yard work anyway, so none of this is likely to get my attention quite yet.  Why make mountains out of molehills?   Six weeks from now they will still be there, and the only ones seeing my yard right now are a blind old woman, a busy teenager, and a Labrador that’s “for the birds.”

I have to say, though, for me the molehills have always been sore spots. (Get it?)  Our property abuts a wetland, so these vermin are part and parcel.  Each February, those of us who are willing move the earth, taking care not to leave hills and valleys that would undermine a harmless game of Frisbee or croquet.  But there’s an unstated understanding that volleyball games take place on somebody else’s half-acre, as we’re not perfectionists.  (“A perfectionist is a person who takes great pains—then passes them on to others.”)

I tend to be project-oriented.  I make lists of daunting tasks and tackle them like a scrumptious pie: munch down one slice very day until I’m sick of it.  (Make molehills out of mountains!)  There are many jobs in life that require superior planning, extreme exertion, or (my personal favorite) wacky weirdos.  The trick is to look at it like the dozen molehills out on my lawn: Roll up your Sleeves, Find a Tool to help, and Use a Shovel if you have to.

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