into each day a little blog must fall

- but some days are more equal than others.  Days when I get a lot done I don't get a blog done. I'm too busy writing to write. And like everyone else I have fiddlies to attend to, like watering the plants, doing the laundry, planning meals (shopping cooking, and oh dear, coping with leftovers) all that  stuff. And trying not to hoard.  Every time I throw something out I feel virtuous; this morning was a good one, not filling land, either, but recycling. I have never considered a day well spent unless I wrote something, or at least thought something.   I suppose this compulsion to achieve each day came from my father.  It's as if I had to justify my existence.  What did  you do today?  What did you learn today? If it's what is now called same-old, same-old (like the plants, laundry, etc.)  then it's  never enough.  And yet.. You  have to take time for people. Otherwise, there's no point, is there?