When I was a teenager, I was lucky enough to go to school that offered almost endless opportunities. I spent more hours than I can imagine working backstage in the theatre, getting ready for choir concerts, riding my horse, and engaging in the sorts of conversations that may seem causal to the passer-by, but are the real business of growing up. But all of that meant that homework often didn’t begin till 10 pm (and this was a school that expected you to do an hour per subject per day in the 6th form), and sometimes life felt a bit fraught.
One day, in the stress of exam season, I decided I needed a plan. I made a list of all that I needed to do. I made a chart of the days and hours left in which to do it, and somehow I fit the two together. It was lovely. Or so I thought. I had just managed the last bit of logistic juggling, just convinced myself that it was possible when one of my English teachers walked by (it was Miss Bassett, for those in the know). She said very firmly, ‘you know there is no greater waste of time than trying to schedule time…’ and then she flounced off and left me feeling more overwhelmed than ever.
I have never really learned that lesson, and I occasionally need to take stock on paper. Today was such a day — trying to set out what we have accomplished this year, and drawing up a rough plan for the coming year under neat columns marked: when?, development, and outreach. This is all meant to encourage the vestry tonight, though I fear it may equally terrify them.
Will the plan be worthwhile? We shall see.
But today, it has made me feel better, Miss Bassett’s advice notwithstanding.