Upon waking, I sip my coffee either upstairs or downstairs, depending on which living space is less messy. Today was a toss up. These are my slippered feet and my PJ’s; that is my cat, and this is what my view usually does NOT look like in the morning.
Warning: this may sound like complaining. It’s not. I really like the destruction. Just ask my husband. He’ll tell you how incredulous he finds the fact that I don’t even get mad anymore when the box-spring frame cracks under the weight of someone who MUST have been jumping on it or at my discovery of firewood splinters all over the carpet (the least of possible evils when it comes to my dog’s chewing habits). I’m just recording the moment. In 10 years I may forget how the mornings went. I won’t remember a time when things I place somewhere don’t stay there.
So I’ll start with the piano. It’s dusty. The floor is an ocean dotted with Lego buoys and their large shallow boxes that remind me of abandoned barges of perfectly recyclable trash floating along forever (a most deeply branded image on my subconscious, all I’ve retained of my public schooling). Cups, bowls of cereal cement, an unwanted bowl of spicy black beans, a lemon half, and a frat party’s worth of cups greet me from the kitchen counter. The cat meows that he wants his good-milk (2%, NOT skim, NOT whole– 2%). Even the goldfish wiggles excitedly when I come close to brew my coffee. He always seems to say the same thing.
Someone (I know who) was searching for a cough drop last night before bed, so the first aid box is on the living room dresser, and all its contents remain perched on said dresser, as if the reciprocal of taking stuff out of a container can’t possibly be to place them back in. Inconceivable. And this one’s mine: Katae’s puzzle from Christmas break is still rolled up under the glass coffee table, its refugee pieces in sorted piles. My defense is I’m leaving it until spring break, when I’m sure she’ll finish it.
Books are everywhere.
I like that kind of a mess because, really, it’s strategic. Convenient books. Anywhere you look you can see one… or ten. I even take the piles apart so a roving eye can get curious about what excitement lies between the different covers. (That was an unintentional double entendre.) Not that I encourage judging a book solely by its cover, of course. Just pick one up.
Where does my Lord fit into this? I was supposed to be reading the Bible; instead I’m penning this record of state of our home. All I know is that– before I knew Him, my house was spotless because aesthetics were all I had on which to stand. Now I know that, more important than a tidy home is a happy heart, lots of them in fact. They are happy making havoc. I can’t keep up with their joy, is all. And I’m too busy having fun myself. So when I survey the jobs-like-stars awaiting my organizational hand and military bearing, I am not overwhelmed.
And I didn’t even bother to describe the room I DIDN’T sit in this morning. 🙂