To air (out) is human; to Elgar is divine.

After dinner last night ~ ice cream cone, salmon burger, and leftover potatoes O'Brien ~ I set the ladybug kitchen timer for half an hour and tackled the hall between my room and my studio. The bit that has three bookcases in it. And had an assortment of small boxes, bags, and large framed artwork.

The artwork I am keeping is now along the finished wall in the dining room, waiting to be hung up. The rest is by the front door and will go out to the truck tomorrow morning and off to the thrift store. Along with a pair of crutches that are miles too long for me and a walker, both of which could be doing some good in the world.

The living room needs maybe 15 minutes. I might tackle it after breakfast and before my shower. The dining room is navigable. Two minutes or less if all I do is put the thoroughly dry umbrella away in the closet. An hour or so if I finish emptying the bookcases on the west wall into the boxes I've brought home so I may finish painting in there. (Painting will not happen this weekend unless somebody slips me an extra day between tomorrow and Sunday.)

After I pried my eyes open this morning, I checked the middle bedroom. The one that will someday be my office. There is a path to the window. I'm making no apologies for that room, and I'm calling it done.

Which leaves both bathrooms. Both of which need a serious scrubbing. Guest bathroom needs to be divested of a plethora of cleaning products which were cluttering up the vanity and have been cluttering up the floor for longer than I am willing to admit. An hour would have both rooms spotless.

My bedroom needs something between one and two hours. Same for my studio. The breakfast nook area is a shambles after the kitchen window episode. I'm thinking three hours for the kitchen, given how overstuffed it is. And how much I dread tackling it.

But all of it eminently doable. And probably before lunch tomorrow, even with rest breaks.

Last night I rewarded myself by watching the rest of "August Rush." The music finished what the massage had started: big tears, real sobs, and an increased sense of peace.

Did I mention that on the way home from Knit Night, I listened to a glorious recording of an/the Elgar cello concerto? And recognized that it was part of the soundtrack to "August Rush?" I thought it came at the beginning, but it's part of the finale. And it is perfect. On its own, and as part of the whole.

There is something about the cello that opens my heart. Classical violin can be lovely. Fiddling is more satisfying. But cello (and to a lesser extent the harp) touch my heartstrings in a way that not even Charlie Daniels playing "Orange Blossom Special" can match.

Breakfast is done. Umbrella is folded. Bagel for lunch is sliced and bagged and in my purse. The rest can wait until tonight, after Bitty Bubba's party, or tomorrow.