I have been slaving in the junk mines, hauling enough crap out of the house that Ferrett has started having dreams about moving–his subconscious can’t believe that there’s this much activity going on without us actually changing residences.
So why is there still such a mess? My dining room is currently giving my agita. My sewing machine is on the table, along with all the detritus of making a quilt. There is packaging for a piece of furniture that just arrived. Erin left behind some things when she picked up Summit after we dogsat for a week. There is fur everywhere, waiting for me to get enough picked up that I can actually vacuum.
I turn around in a full circle, and all I see is the mess. Then I turn just a little further and I am reminded that this is a home. It’s a living, evolving space, not a museum. Messes are going to flow in like the tide, and then flow out again. And my friend Lucy, who was over yesterday evening, helped me with perspective. I was complaining about it, and she said. “It’s not really a mess. It’s just a mess compared to what you want it to be.”
I admit it. I find sparseness restful. Ferrett, on the other hand, finds it cold. When the house is as clean as I want it, he feels like he’s living in a hotel.
So I make concessions. There are toys scattered on the living room floor, because dog. In one month, all the Rock Band instruments will come back up from the basement and clutter my living room with plastic. But it’s plastic that bespeaks friends and fun, and so I will live with the drumset that’s about the size of a VW Beetle. Because several times a month my house will be filled with laughter and music, and that’s a good thing. A bit messy, but still good.