It has been an interesting week for me mentally. Over the last few days, with the painting of my living space and things being out of order and scattered around for the sake of painting, I have found my mind feeling the same way. I have found it hard to focus on anything or to be consistent. Something about living in such an environment bothers me. Perhaps I'm not too fond of the whole living out of boxes or bags, even though I am used to doing things to make them work for me. When you think of it in a big picture context, I know it wasn't that bad or inconvenient. It had to be done, and I knew it was coming, just not when precisely.
Perhaps I didn't notice how to use the routines I've become, and I only am now because almost everything is back into place. Perhaps there is something to be said for the line, "A cluttered space, a cluttered mind." I am glad to have my living space back. I feel more focused, and I can focus on myself. It feels strange to go upstairs now and cook even because my family members have things where they want them compared to where my grandma would keep things when she was still with us. It feels a little foreign. Yet my space feels homey to me. I am certain my family could say the same when I used to live upstairs.
The family does plan to renovate the upstairs one day soon, and I will be back to cooking down here for us, which is completely fine with me. They have been kind enough to cook for me way more this year, with the few times they have asked me to cook. It would be unfair of me to say no.
I made meatloaf for us yesterday with broccoli and mashed potatoes—another well-received meal. I haven't lost my touch yet.
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