present, if not productive

There are post-holiday messes in every single corner of the house, half-built brick sets and craft projects held together with washi tape and hope, a drooping tree and nerf darts stuck in the chandelier. Basically this place is trashed.
The calendar is past the date we might've tried to collect ourselves and begin again. Although it's never too late to begin.

I waste some time thinking about things I might like to change, but can't. And more time considering the things I wish would never change, but will. I spend some time sweeping pine needles too.
I'm not really pledging to do anything differently or striving to do everything the same, not worried about cementing routines or chiseling away at habits, rather just sculpting the days as they come.
Along with the other artistic directors who live here. Do I owe them more though, some sort of improved version of myself?
When my head whirs inside with a swarm of worries, messier than the house, I take myself for a long walk. We'll work on tidying, and potty training and spelling, another time.