7 Reasons Your Office is Disorganized

Personal Growth & Empowerment

Get Your Mind Out of The Clutter

Do you struggle with a cluttered workspace?

Are you surrounded by piles, half-done projects and boxes of unknown contents?

How did you end up with so much stuff?

There are many different reasons for disorder and chaos.

Identifying your mental block may be an essential step to getting your office organized. When your office functions well you’ll get more work accomplished.

Here Are 7 Characteristics That Often Lead To Disorganization.

#1: The Perfectionist

This surprises some. They think someone who wants everything perfect should have a neat and tidy office, not a cluttered one.

Wanting things to be the best is an admirable pursuit.

Too often perfectionism can be a self-defeating thought pattern that drives you to try to achieve unrealistically high standards.

Is your goal to have an office that looks like it belongs in a magazine or one that functions well?

Perfectionism becomes an obstacle when it stops…

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Your “Glory Days” May Lie Ahead

Refined by Age

Where do your “glory days” lie? In the windshield or the rear view mirror?

I made up my mind a long time ago: I am not going to live in the past – only telling people who I used to be because my present life is not worth mentioning. I am not going to make the mainstay of conversations on bygone days because the best of me lies in the past. I am not going to give up any ground I’ve earned in the present moment; it will have to be taken from me. In fact, I am not going to just stand my ground – I am going to move forward as I age. And, I most certainly am not going to live precariously through the lives of other people – real or on television.

Life has shown many of us that this mindset is easier said than kept over the long…

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Special Needs Siblings Have Special Needs Too

Lead with Your Passion

Lead with Your Passion.

Friendship

Friendship is one of the sweetest joys of life.

Many may have failed beneath the bitterness of their trial had they not found a friend.

Charles Spurgeon.

A Persian Proverb

He who knows not.

And knows not that he knows not.

Is a fool….shun him.

He who knows not,

And knows that he knows not

Is a child…..teach him.

He who knows.

And knows not that he knows.

Is asleep…..wake him.

He who knows.

And knows that he knows.

Is wise…..follow him.

Give God Time

Make an appointment with God every day and then keep it as if you were meeting the most important person in the world.     Bruce & Stan

Sharing the Weak Moments

Wordsmith's Desk

The believer’s walk is not an easy path. There are rocks in the way, briars and overgrowth that all but choke out the hope that is within. Many faithful are victimized by challenges and the voice of the enemy every day.

Weakness can happen all of a sudden, without warning, and swirl you like the water near the opening of a drain. Who will share such a moment, such a faithless event? The pretense of strength prevents us from sharing the moments when we are overcome with a sense of weakness. We think, rather, that others will be helped and motivated if we share our strengths and victories.

Unfortunately, just the opposite may and does take place. Many are further discouraged by success stories because they use it as a measuring device and find that they do not measure up because they have fallen again. They become more isolated in…

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The Scars that Remain….

Worst than the hurt.

Are the scars that remain.

The aftermath.

The residue of  pain.

So many tears enlisted.

Now appear to be in vain.

They’ve overflowed into my soul.

Threatening to leave.

An  ugly stain.

Resistant.

Persistent.

Though I struggle to refrain.

It creeps in.

And seeps in.

Lying.

Deeply engrained.

Seems no way to purge.

This pervasive scourge.

An indefensible strain.

A runaway train.

No way to contain.

It grows roots.

And lays claim.

A malignant host.

Diligently.

Man’s His post.

And slowly feeds.

Upon my brain.

I am a portrait.

Without a frame.

Yet I mourn.

Instead of scorn.

Search my own soul.

For blame.

A  moth.

Drawn to the flame.

They all think.

That I’m insane.

But it’s

THE SCARS THAT REMAIN…..

That dim my eyes twinkle.

Wipes away my smile.

Spawns despair.

With cavernous depths.

Laid end to end.

Would stretch for miles.

I gave all of who I was.

Every fiber.

Every cell.

I gave until there was nothing left.

But this.

Empty.

Broken.

Shell.

Hope circling the drain.

From.

THE SCARS THAT REMAIN…..

That skew my inner compass.

Draw pity from the pompous.

Self loathing.

And disdain.

I awoke.

Sleeping with the enemy.

To find the theft.

Of my identity.

Now my own tail I chase.

I stand before the mirror.

Though I squint.

And draw nearer.

Still.

I cant place the face.

So Miss Heartache.

Please.

Give me a clue.

Just who am I.

Apart from you.

A puzzle with missing pieces.

Who never owns.

Only leases.

With an ache.

That never ceases.

And a eulogy.

As my thesis.

Will this misery ever wane?

From.

THE SCARS THAT REMAIN…..

That make me.

Think to much.

And.

Drink to much.

I struggle to abstain.

Everyday.

I don the mask.

And affix.

The ball and chain.

By night

I take to my knees.

And pray

For the pain to ease.

And.

The strength to maintain.

For.

Worse than the hurt.

Are.

The scars that remain.

Writer’s Block D The Supermax

My brow wrinkled in frustration.

I stared at the empty page.

My thoughts paced back and forth aimlessly.

Inside their gilded cage.

As if some unseen hand.

Had spitefully pulled the plug.

And this unsightly orange jumpsuit.

Is fitting uncomfortably snug.

Adrift beneath a sky of dark clouds.

My clarity of thought was cloaked.

Anxiety gnaws.

As I grasp at the straws.

Poetic license revoked.

You call this justice!

Completely absurd.

My vocabulary reduced.

To a mere handful of words.

My repeated attempts at freedom.

Does the waste-paper basket fill.

On my face is etched a grimace.

After taste….the bitter pill.

Off his mirrored glasses.

The Sun glistens.

From upon his perch on high.

While in desperation.

My mind gropes.

He fine tunes his scope.

No escape.

The all seeing eye.

With contempt in their voices.

I could hear the guards as they joked.

“Just another statistic

More kindle for the stoke”.

If only that fly on the wall.

Could write a tell all.

Maybe I could raise my bail.

But the question you see.

Is what kind of story would it be.

Of redemption or cautionary tale.

I am running out of options.

Nothing left to do but stall.

With breath heavily baited.

I nervously awaited.

In hope.

That the Governor would call.

Memo: To all you writers.

Beginners or seasoned vets.

This is the place where dreams come to die.

And the Piper collects his debts.

No matter your level of expertise.

You can still slip through the cracks.

And end up here with me.

In Writer’s Block D.

They call it the Supermax.