I have family coming in town to visit tomorrow and our house is a mess. Only half of the house is suitable for guests. A quarter is questionable and the rest is behind closed doors. Keep out signs will be posted. I may add glitter for dramatic effect.
With three kids, two dogs and a noticeable lack of bookshelves, order is not what we are known for. Sure, I could use weekends to re-organize and hold yard sales. Tidy every day and clean every week. Chase the kids around with a vacuum cleaner. But if making our home magazine-ready was my main priority, I wouldn’t have a reading life, much less a writing life.
What says more about me—my words or my mess?
You could learn a lot about me from the stacks of paper in my office, the piles of laundry in my bedroom and old games in the hall. But the real me is here—writing to make significance of it all. I know that in a few days, cleanish spaces will be littered with shoes, snacks and backpacks while cluttered areas clear. That’s just how it is.
Clearly, I have no business writing a blog post tonight. Or ever for that matter. But here I am anyway. Writing in my messy house.