The State of My Space

He forgot to take out the trash again.  I'm no better. This morning's dishes slump in the sink, next to the laundry basket of mismatched socks I had worked on last night.  Blocks are still scattered on the floor and it appears someone abandoned half a bagel on the coffee table.  We come clambering in from the co op, arms full of art projects and assignments and I shrug out of my jacket and take the baby up to my (unmade) bed for a nap.  I pause only a moment to pat his round tummy before turning to face it all down.

Its been said that cleaning with young children in the house is like shoveling in the snowstorm. I try to remember that when juice splatters the floor I just mopped, or when a painting project gets way out of hand.  I try to remember that all of that goes double for a family where the children are home all day long.  A home with over double the national average of people is going to have an insane laundry pile.  I try to remember.

I know deep down that seeking solace in crisp cleanliness is an empty pursuit.  It may give comfort for a bit but it will never give that deep abiding peace that I keep looking for.  The moment a sippy cup capsizes, its gone, replaced with discontentment, disappointment, dissatisfaction.  There is rest and peace for my soul, but I won't find it no matter how many bags of donations I set on the front porch, or how determinedly I scrub the bathroom sink.

 I surround myself with people who "get" it.  I tell myself that none of it matters and that, if someone judges me by the clutter beneath my couch, perhaps that's not my problem.  I try not to let it all bug me and put on a brave face when I show the handyman my basement in all its cob-webby, disorganized glory.

Sometimes, I succeed.  I know who I am, I know my vocation and I know it gets ugly here sometimes.  And sometimes there's a bit of beauty in the ugly, that ugly/beautiful.  The collection of matchbox cars, wooden blocks and action figures I trip over on the stairs.  The sink full of mason jars.  The pile of shoes at the back door.

Sometimes, I fail.  I storm about and shout orders and demand order at any cost.  But even if it is accomplished, its empty.  A home void of life is an empty, joyless place.  Like a forest teaming with life, there is an order to the mayhem, a pattern, a purpose.  Who can improve on the perfection of of paint dripping from the elbow of a most intent miniature artist?  Now's not the time to demand perfection.  Now's the time to encourage creativity and curiosity and yes discipline but all wrapped up in grace and understanding.  All these crumbs are worth it, or so I tell myself.

So it goes.  I fire up and talk myself down.  I vacillate between iron clad requirements and relaxed expectations.  I flip and I flop and I try to get it all right - to not mind when its all undone a moment after I do it.

The state of my space?  Unspectacular.

This is the life.  This is how it goes. This is why there is photo editing.