On Leaving Things Unfinished

Loorie sings "Just Breathe (for a little while)"

(Above a link to Loorie's latest song.)

Oh darlings, let me tell you something right off the bat. If you ever feel a little itchy inside because something isn’t finished, welcome to the club. We meet on Tuesdays. Bring snacks.

There is a very specific kind of discomfort that comes from unfinished work, and it’s not the panicky, oh-no-I-forgot-to-pay-the-electric-bill kind. No, no. It’s the quieter one. The one that taps you on the shoulder and says, “You could keep going, dear… but you’re not going to.” And you sit there thinking, Well. That’s interesting.

We’ve been taught to treat unfinished things like crime scenes. Fingerprints everywhere. Proof of distraction. Proof of indecision. Proof that something went terribly, horribly wrong. As if stopping is only respectable if you’ve crossed every T, dotted every I, and stapled the thing shut with a bow on top.

I’m not buying it anymore. I’m too old for that nonsense. My knees creak. I’ve earned opinions.

There’s a big difference, you see, between something you abandon and something that’s simply waiting. From the outside, they look the same. Nothing happening. No motion. From the inside, though? Oh, they feel worlds apart.

Abandonment is loud. It bangs pots and pans in your head. It smells like guilt. It keeps asking you to explain yourself, preferably in writing.

Waiting is much nicer company. Waiting sits quietly in the corner with a cup of tea and says, “We’re good for now.” Waiting says, “No need to shove this along.” Waiting says, “We’re still figuring things out, sweetheart.”

That distinction matters. More than anyone ever tells you.

I have projects of my own perched around like sleepy cats. Not broken. Not sulking. Just resting. I could finish them, sure, but they’d come out stiff and polite instead of true. And finishing something too early has a cost people don’t talk about. Once you declare something done, it’s like slamming a door. Very hard to reopen without feeling awkward about it.

For most of history, unfinished work wasn’t a scandal. Letters went unanswered for years. Ideas lounged around in notebooks without names. Questions stretched themselves across entire lifetimes. In many old traditions, restraint was wisdom. Not rushing was a sign you knew what you were doing.

Modern life, bless its busy little heart, hates that. Everything has to be clear, decisive, visible. If it’s not moving forward, people assume it must be sliding backward. But that thinking squashes the very space where understanding grows.

Some of the best ideas show up after you stop pushing. Not because you gave up, but because you let go of the vice grip. Distance lets things reshuffle. Quiet lets you hear what noise keeps stepping on. It’s not magic. It’s attention behaving itself.

And here’s a truth people whisper but don’t like to admit: sometimes what changes during a pause isn’t the project at all. It’s you. Time adds seasoning. Experience rearranges priorities. Something that once felt urgent might turn out to be decorative. Something you thought was the destination turns out to be a practice lap.

In those moments, finishing doesn’t fix the tension. It embalms it.

Leaving something unfinished can be a kindness to your future self. A version of you who will know more, see differently, or care about something else entirely. That future you deserves a little room.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Not every unfinished thing is noble. Some of them are just a mess. Some pauses are avoidance in a clever hat. Incompletion alone doesn’t tell the story. It’s the quality of the pause that matters.

I’ve noticed that when I stop scolding myself for not finishing something, the work doesn’t vanish. It just waits in a different way. It comes back when it’s relevant again. Often clearer. Often smaller. Sometimes wearing a whole new outfit. That’s not procrastination. Procrastination hums with anxiety. This kind of waiting hums with… well, peace.

There’s also a delightful lightness that comes from not hauling everything at once. When unfinished things are allowed to nap without judgment, the work you do keep going with feels intentional. Less crowded. Less defensive. Like you’re choosing it, not fending off a mob.

This way of living won’t give you tidy conclusions or color-coded systems. It won’t promise efficiency or gold stars. What it offers is orientation. A sense of where you are without yelling at yourself.

You’re allowed to shut the notebook without a final sentence.

You’re allowed to let something wait without turning it into a personal failure story.

Some things finish by being trusted.

And sometimes, thinking for a while isn’t a delay at all. Sometimes, my dear, it is the work.

Mary has done a video on this subject too. If you want to .. Zippy zip over there and take a peek.

Mary on Things Unfinished (for now)

The Dress the Color of a Summer Day

 If memories and ideas keep coming back into your life, You know, an image, a notion, a worry that won’t mind its manners, that memory isn’t broken, it’s probably just knocking.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love a good fixing. I’ve fixed radios with butter knives and once repaired a wobbly chair with a ruler and sheer confidence. But some things aren’t asking to be fixed. They’re asking to be heard. And if you don’t listen, they get louder. Or stranger. Or they move into your toolbox and start shouting.

Which brings me to Mary.

Mary likes to pretend she’s in charge of things. Sweet girl. Very capable. Makes lists. Keeps calendars. Tries to train time like it’s a cooperative pet. It is not.

One June day, an absolutely shamelessly gorgeous June day, all green and blue and puffed-up white clouds like the sky was showing off, I told Mary I wanted a dress the color of that day. Not a sensible dress. A twirly one. A dress with opinions.

I could see it. Full skirt. Sunlight stitched right in. Maybe a little gold headband, just to be polite to the sun. (Whispering, tiara, what girl doesn’t love a tiara?)

Mary sighed.

That’s usually the sound she makes right before she puts me somewhere inconvenient.

Next thing I know, I’m in the diamond-plate toolbox in the back of her pickup, wedged between resentment and motor oil. Now listen, if you’ve never tried to have a meaningful creative conversation next to a leaky jug of 15W-40, I don’t recommend it.

She *said* that she wasn’t banishing me.

(She absolutely was.)

She was looking at nine more hours of driving some loud, dusty contraption … I forget its name, but it smelled like diesel and dust, and she wanted peace if not silence, because that Cumins engine was going to be her background music. What she got was me yelling that a summer-day dress would make everything better just before she fired up that engine.

She never made that dress (until just now). I brought it up from time to time. Because some ideas are patient, and some are persistent, and the good ones are usually both.

That day with the dress and the diesel was around the time Mary finally stopped pretending that her work was separate from her life. As if you can stack the pieces neatly and label them. Creative work doesn’t work like that. It’s one long conversation that you keep bumping into. Sometimes lovingly. Sometimes with a shopping cart.

She started paying attention then. Connecting things. Letting them talk to each other instead of shoving them in boxes.

Now, Fab World—that’s my house, obviously. Or Mary’s house, but properly improved. Same structure, better attitude. And in the garden … yes, garden, because calling it a yard is how nothing grows. In the garden there’s a big old maple tree.

Not a sugar maple. Don’t get excited. Just a regular, magnificent, stubborn old thing. Ninety years, give or take. Which means it won’t be around forever.

That’s the part people get quiet about. Mary and I are glad it’s here. We’re sad it won’t outlast us. Both thoughts can exist at the same time. So Mary did what she does. She brought that tree into her work. Not to explain it. Just to notice it while it’s still standing.

From my kitchen window—yes, my kitchen, with the radio that looks like the grill of a 1958 Hudson Hawk in shadowtone red,  and a pink refrigerator that minds its own business I can see that tree. I sit there listening to the radio and watching time happen.

Now before you think I’m stuck in the 1950’s, let me assure you: I own a modern electronic corkboard. It’s right there on the fridge. Very advanced. Very bossy. It remembers things so I don’t have to.

It’s all very silly.

And very satisfying.

Mary says she uses Fab World to keep time and memory contained. I think she means she needs a place where things can exist without demanding conclusions. When memories get too loud, she puts them here with me. I keep an eye on them. I’m good at that.

Eventually Mary started wondering if everyone does this. Circles the same themes. Trips over the same ideas. Visits the same questions like old neighbors you don’t hate but don’t fully understand either. She used to think it meant she was stuck. I told her that was nonsense.

Some old psychologist fellow once said the mind sends you the same symbols until you actually invite them in. Not to rework them. Not to shrink them. Just to integrate them. Which is a fancy word for letting them sit at the table without an argument.

Mary liked that. Took it as permission to stop fixing herself and start listening.

Time, for instance. Mary and time have a complicated relationship. She once aged herself and her mother an entire year by accident. Told her mother the wrong age with such confidence that they both lived in the future for twelve months.

Now she keeps clocks everywhere. Calendars too. Because remembered time has a tendency to drift, and she prefers not to find herself in June when she was still living in May.

Her stories, her characters—me included—are how she stitches the inside time to the outside clocks. A negotiation. A truce.

Aging surprised her. It surprises most people. You think it’ll be louder or sadder or slower. Instead, it folds. Years stack themselves into moments. Old questions knock again, but differently dressed. She thought her memory was failing. It wasn’t. It was reorganizing.

People think memory is storage. Filing cabinets. Hard drives. Labels and accuracy. That’s not what it’s for. Memory is for coherence. We don’t remember what happened. We remember what mattered. That’s why certain images keep coming back. They’re still working.

That’s why my world is full of objects instead of explanations. A house. A radio. A corkboard. A tree. Things that don’t justify themselves. They just are. The maple tree doesn’t narrate. It stands there and lets time happen to it. That’s more than enough.

Mary finally understood that bringing memory into her work wasn’t about preserving the past. It was about letting the past walk alongside the present without grabbing the steering wheel.

And then there’s voice. Oh, voice comes back too. Not louder. Clearer.

Mary’s voice, my voice, the voices she borrows when she needs courage or distance. Some people argue. Some instruct. Mary narrates. She tells you where she is and lets you decide if you want to sit down for a minute.

I approve.

Voice disappears sometimes because life gets busy. It doesn’t leave. It waits. Aging gives the voices that make up the music of memory permission to sing again. To sing the songs that tell the truth as memory currently understands it.

Meaning works the same way. It doesn’t arrive with a trumpet. It shows up through repetition. Through showing up again and again without demanding a finale. Meaning isn’t an answer. It’s a direction. Or if you ask me, it’s the next step in a waltz.

That’s why Mary makes episodes instead of declarations. Check-ins instead of manifestos. Corkboards instead of conclusions. Attention is maintained, not finished. So if ideas keep returning in your life, it doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means you’re practicing.

And practice is how meaning keeps its balance while everything else wobbles.

Darlings, before I let you go, I’ll say this. Look back in your memory. Don’t focus on the loud parts. Notice the memories that keep coming back quietly. Those memories might just be asking you to put on a dancin’ dress and twirl.

Now. Coffee’s still on, that old clock is still spinning. And thinking … well.

Thinking is always allowed.

Companion piece where I let Mary talk (Going live on Thursday January 15th): Blogger preview available now through this link: Mary on the YouTubes

 

A Small Win, A Real Friction

Well now, let me scoot my chair a little closer, because I’ve been chewing on something and I’d hate for it to fall out of my head before I say it out loud.

Mary and I’ve been thinking about the difference between being busy and being oriented. From the outside, they’re twins. Identical haircuts. Full calendars. Plenty of activity. But on the inside? Oh, completely different animals. One feels like motion for motion’s sake. The other feels like direction. Like you know which way your feet are pointed, even if you’re moving slowly.

This recent stretch of time handed Mary a small win and a rather revealing bit of friction, and wouldn’t you know it, the two were holding hands.

The small win came first. Mary finally noticed something about her own mind that has been true forever, but that she kept pretending was a character flaw. When she would fall into a project or an idea, She doesn't just lose track of time. She moves into a whole other internal zip code. It’s immersive. It’s joyful. It’s the reason that she looks up hours later with cold coffee and the vague suspicion that nothing is ever truly finished.

For years, she scolded herself for that. Told herself that she needed more discipline. More structure. A firmer hand on the reins.

This time, she tried something kinder.

Instead of arguing with her curiosity, instead of telling it to hush or sit still, she gave it a place to wait. A real one. I boxed it up. Not to exile it. Not to punish it. Just to contain it. The message wasn’t “you’re a problem.” The message was “you matter, just not right this minute.”

And to her great surprise, it worked.

Not forever. Not flawlessly. But enough.

Enough to finish a piece of work. Enough to send it out without sneaking in just one more thought. Enough to move on with her day without that itchy, unfinished feeling. That sense of enoughness was the win. Small, but solid. The kind you can lean on.

Once things quieted down, though, she noticed something else.

The friction.

With the mental clatter turned down, it became clear that she had been walking around with two very different maps in my pocket, switching between them without realizing it.

One map is local. It’s built around home, routines, familiar paths, the creative studio, the places she circles back to again and again. Meaning on this map comes from continuity. From staying. It’s a map of here.

The other map is expansive. It’s meant for long journeys and big arcs. History, consequence, change. It looks forward. It asks who she is becoming. It’s a map of elsewhere.

Neither map is wrong. They’re both good maps.

The trouble comes when she tries to use the wrong one. Or worse, when she expects one map to do the work of the other.

A world map is a marvelous thing. Truly. But it’s not much help when you’re trying to cross the street without getting hit by a bus.

What she is slowly learning is that coherence doesn’t mean stuffing everything into one grand system. It doesn’t mean lining up all of life under a single banner and saluting. Coherence, for Mary, is starting to feel more like orientation. Knowing where she is. Knowing what kind of ground she's standing on. Choosing the right way to see it in that moment.

The small win wasn’t taming curiosity forever.
The real friction wasn’t having many creative worlds.
The insight was realizing that different kinds of travel require different kinds of maps.

Nothing here wraps up neatly. There’s no triumphant solution or final answer with a flourish. But there is relief in understanding what’s actually happening. There’s kindness in realizing that not everything needs to be solved. Some things just need better containers.

And sometimes, my dear, that’s enough to keep going.

If you’d like to hear the longer conversation that grew out of this, there’s a link waiting for you. And if not, that’s perfectly fine. This thought can stand on its own two sensible shoes.

Taking time to think is still allowed.
Even encouraged.

Link to Episode 3 https://youtu.be/eCk-G968H0g

New Year! New Integrated Beginning.

Well now, pull up a chair and let me tell you what I’ve been up to, because it turns out herding one’s own ideas is very much like herding cats. Cats with opinions. And tiny hats.

Mary spent a good long while trying to figure out how to tie all our creative threads into one tidy little bow. Something tasteful. Something sensible. Something that would make people nod and say, “Ah yes, very cohesive.” And then one morning we realized we don’t actually want a bow. We want a basket. Possibly with wheels.

So we made ourselves a new YouTube home called The Wedgwood Cottage Studio, and I’m calling it a new beginning with a straight face and crossed fingers. But make no mistake, We are not giving anything up. Oh no. We are loading all of it into the back of an ancient land yacht of a station wagon. The kind with fake wood paneling and a mysterious smell. And we are driving it forward into the future at a very reasonable speed, turn signal on.

New year, new beginning. Same me. Same curiosities. Same pile of interesting nonsense riding shotgun.

Now, about these opening episodes. They’re about taking inventory. Not the sort where you label bins or solve your life. Just the gentle kind. The noticing kind. The “hmm, isn’t that interesting” kind.

If you’ve ever felt tugged in several directions at once, or wondered whether you’re stuck or quietly, sneakily moving forward, you might recognize the feeling. These conversations linger there. They don’t poke it with a stick.

In the two-part opening, we paused long enough to see what’s moving easily and what’s digging in its heels. We talked about unfinished work, competing projects, and that low hum of pressure that comes from time passing while curiosity keeps whispering, “Ooo, just one more idea.” You know the voice. It sounds friendly but never shuts up.

We noticed how containment can be an act of kindness. How giving something a place to wait can calm the whole room. How sometimes the problem isn’t the work at all, but the map you’re using. A way of thinking that works beautifully for one journey can be wildly unhelpful for another. Like trying to navigate a forest with a subway map. Technically impressive. Practically useless.

And here’s the radical part. We didn’t fix anything.

We didn’t make plans.

We didn’t force tidy conclusions with a bow on top.

Instead, Fab stepped in and told her own story. And Ewen of the Old Trails spoke about winter, truth, and walking carefully. Not as answers. As companions. The sort who walk beside you without grabbing the wheel.

You don’t need to do anything with this.

You can let it land. Or not. You can wander in, poke around, and wander back out again.

The room will still be here.

I’ll be the one by the old station wagon, rearranging ideas and wondering where I left the thermos.

Episode 1: https://youtu.be/0MlsnjdXpyw

Episode 2: https://youtu.be/D4N79ZwYiSE