We've chopped a lot of wood over the last nine years. We're in our fifth winter of heating primarily with free wood (the last four years almost exclusively). We enjoy the exercise. I get to use the chain saw and carry wood. I have only recently been able to wield a wood maul after more than two years off because of a shoulder injury I sustained at the gym. I missed the splitting. And stacking and restacking (a good way to work through anger or impatience).

Recently while meeting someone new at a regular Saturday morning discussion group, I mentioned it was a difficult commitment to be there every week, because otherwise, I'd be chopping wood and hauling water. He asked whether I meant that literally or figuratively. We've done so much of both–literally–that I'd almost forgotten it was first a metaphor for being grounded, for doing humble things, for addressing with excellence the tasks lying nearest.

Chopping wood…whatever that means to you…

• forcing words onto paper
• folding clothes for your family
• forging new relationships, whether personal, political or professional
• serving on committees, because you're capable, and someone has to do it

I won't claim any great zen insights from these mundane tasks. I enjoy the sheer physicality of swinging a sledge hammer, maul or axe with all my might, often then facing a test of strength to extract the tool from an unforgiving stump. But it's oh so sweet when the log splits perfectly, revealing that beautiful grain and seductive fragrance. Or when it flies into three parts on one blow.

When were we ever charged to appreciate life and its chores in a certain way? Is it not enough to put one foot in front of the other, and continue life's tasks—whether the right one first or the other one first. How do you know So-and-So who said there is a better way—and a lesser way—to live knew anything at all more than you know? Whatever you believe about that is something you decided in your own mind.

Have you just thought of some mind wood that begs chopping?

Yes, my kitchen cupboards are painted purple inside--what color are yours?

I heard an old wives' tale a few years back, and it made some sense to me. The saying was, "Whatever state of order or disorder you are in as the new year rolls in will predict your entire year."

I'm superstitious about some things and not about others (there's a whole blog post right there!). I was not frightened or superstitious about that bit of 'grandmotherly guidance,' but I deemed it a good enough idea to incorporate ever since.

So sometime between a couple weeks before Christmas and New Year's Day, I take my dresser drawers, one-by-one, to a TV tray in front of the – you called it – the TV — and sort them out while I watch favorite shows. I refold scarves, reorganize jewelry, recycle worn socks and unwearable T-shirts. It's a call to pack away shorts and tank tops and fill the drawers with turtle necks and sweat pants.

When I've been especially industrious, I've carried over this straightening up to the bathroom. Drawers and cupboards and bins of toiletries are sorted, thinned as needed, and reorganized into an even better schema than last year.

Sunday, December 18th–right in the key cleaning up field–I amazed myself by taking on the kitchen cupboards from top to bottom. First, there were the brightly colored and seldom used, mostly ornamental bowls and pitchers sitting atop the cupboards, organizing their own dust disguises for at least the last six months. All were cleaned or washed and repositioned.

One by one I delved behind cupboard doors, top shelf to bottom, removing all contents, dusting or washing the shelves, as needed, and returning – or washing and returning – the dishes. A little reorganizing, a little gaining space. Up and down the two-step stool I went, in a frenzy of polishing and making the kitchen gleam.

I didn't stop there. I did all of the drawers–washed the flatware trays, returning the nested spoons and forks to their respective compartments.

Next drawer: sharpened all of the knives while clearing and cleaning.

Next: Re-sorted and realigned placemats.

Then that most horrible of all drawers – the one with the over-sized utensils and the measuring cups and funnels…Many serviceable items were retired to covered plastic storage bins, awaiting a shift in gourmet preferences.

Moving left, there were kettles and baking dishes and storage containers and mixing bowls and glass measuring cups – all to be sorted, decided upon, and their pull-out wire baskets removed completely for thorough cleaning underneath. I won't bore you with the plethora of kitchen items. They're the same ungainly lots as yours, I'm sure. Each 3-4 items has a completely different shape, unsuited for nesting or compact storage.

I didn't stop here. I polished the counter tops, scoured the sinks, mopped the floor. All of this for what?

Because my doctor put me on Estrogen therapy, so instead of caring about only myself and my jewelry and my clothes, I went on a deep-seated pre-evolutionary kitchen binge, leaving me barefoot, knowing where every pot and spoon is.

Oh my gawd. I'm not going to get pregnant, am I? Because then I would really need to address my closet!

There was a time when I preferred editing. I found it easier to correct, sharpen or "improve," (according to the Bible of "me") someone else's brilliantly-crafted ideas.

No compulsion in the world is stronger than the urge to edit someone elses document. —H. G. Wells

I've just come off a three-month ordeal that required a lot of writing. The whole project energized me, but especially the writing. What I dislike most now that it's over is the vacuum where a must-communicate demand used to be. I whipped out web pages and promotional emails as easily as drinking water. And for me, apparently, just as refreshing.

Writing is especially compelling when there's an urgent message to convey or a mind-blowing insight to reveal, not so much that people's lives would be changed as that they would see one (me) as an embodiment of wisdom or enlightenment.

That's pathetic. But it's also the reality of many a writer.

I've known since I was in the 6th grade and won a poetry contest (probably the only entry in my age group) that I wanted to be a writer. I've since spent decades doing other things—many involving writing in some ancillary way, such as developing brochures for organizations that had no idea what they needed to say to their not-yet-adoring public.

Most fun for me is when I do see an idea from a new perspective. I want to write about it. Because possibly even more than writing I love teaching. Either way, I'm compelled to communicate to change someone's mind. Persuasion. How to win at that is another topic for another day.

When we're children, we fancy people who mirror our thoughts—we both love grape soda, so we must be best friends and find two straws.

As a young adult, I noticed I liked to sit on the edge—observe the group from almost outside the circle. Inside enough to understand them; outside enough to bring in ideas that did not already exist in the group. Like a painter, I portrayed a recognizable scene with colors and emphasis that were all my own, giving new life to old ideas.

I'm not the best writer, not a Pulitzer winner, not a great or even compelling poet. What I think I am is clear. Creative enough to keep your attention (you read this far already?). Do not own a golden keyboard. But insightful. Passionate.

What about you? What passion of yours have you shared this week, and how did you do that? Did you create a new dish, bead a bracelet, plant your fall bulbs, tune up your car?

What have you done for you lately?

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