3 May

I can tell the weather is nice when, walking through our house, there are piles of laundry scattered around, dishes sitting by the sink, and just an overall not-quite-messy, but a really, really lived-in feel going on.  When the weather is beautiful, I am obsessed with the outdoors.  I cannot soak up enough sunshine or take too many walks through our neighborhood or sit on our stoop, drink a Leinies, and just be alive.

However, there comes a rainy day – like yesterday – when I am forced to come in, look at all that I’ve neglected, and realize that our house looks border-line Hoarders worthy, that these dishes are nasty, and that I must come to terms with the fact that, as much as I protest otherwise, I really am messy.

My mother, God bless that woman, always told me that I am something akin to a human tornado. Though I never meant to, I know that too often as a really strange child, I was so caught up in putting on the production of my youth – and daaaaamn was that a lively event – that I could walk into a spotless room and within a matter of seconds, my sneakers would find themselves kicked into the corner, a book would suddenly sprawl across the table, a poured a glass of lemonade would be finished and stuck somewhere completely unnecessary (with the jug still on the counter), and I would be dramatically sprawled onto the couch, exhausted by my own energy, and gazing intently at Little House on the Prairie, Saved by the Bell, Maury, or whatever other horrifying show was on TBS at that time – without even realizing the chaos I created.

I would protest needlessly that the mess was not my own –  “Those are not my shoes!”  “That glass was Theo’s!” “I don’t even know that book!”  – while my mother, in expletives worthy of any sailor, would threaten to make me eat up the mess if it was not picked up in ten seconds.  She’s amazing.

I was always so unjustifiably defiant.  I refused the claim of having things and putting those things in poorly chosen locations.  I didn’t want to admit to  being messy. 


Whether it is because I must grow up or that I’ve just grown wiser or maybe because I’ve had a lot of coffee this morning and am in an active, pleasant mood, I really think this mess is a great thing.  How lucky am I that I have so many possessions that they have places to belong and create clutter when all these great things are not where they “belong?”  How fab is it that I can have all these passions and interests to leave lying around in a house with a roof over my head and a kitchen and toilet paper and a sidewalk?

I like that I am messy, because while there is a mess, it means I am alive, and while I am alive I have a chance.  And that, my friends, is an awesome feeling.

I don’t want to be attached to this mess.  M and I plan on selling everything that is unnecessary before we leave and store only what has real personal value.  And as easy as that seemed to me at first, I am growing accustomed to these things because they really aren’t just things.They are the mess, and that mess is my life.

But, after the rainy day spent tidying up the nursery, the weather turns again to sunshine and I am out and running and exploring and taking pictures and I realize that I haven’t even thought about the things I have in the house.  This feeling outside is far more important than anything taking up space, and this feeling is what it really means to be alive.  And I know that when we head out to wherever life may take us on our Peace Corps journey, nothing will compare to the experiences we have.  I have no attachments stronger than the attachment to the energy of a powerful day with new people and new places.

Especially when the sun is shining.


One Response to “Things”

  1. Aunt Pony May 4, 2012 at 10:15 pm #

    Lovely. Just lovely.

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