reaching the end of the line

thursday night was writing night. an hour or two by myself to listen to the thoughts that swirl and pace inside me like a tiger in a cage needing to find a way out. waiting for the moment that the tiger-keeper is otherwise occupied, unwatchful, so i can return to my wild self. waiting for opportunity and silence and that blink of a moment when snippets and fragments can be woven together into a cohesive whole, an almost-fully-written piece. this is the best i can do right now – a few strands of words strung together amidst the chaos of life.

pacing the apartment while the magician packs snacks, fills water bottles, and changes nappies to take the kids out for some fun, i wait for the silence to listen in and write. i grow weary and frustrated. the fire dies. the words evaporate and all i see are the dust bunnies under the furniture, finger prints on the kitchen drawers, a ring in the bath tub, vegetables gone limp in the produce drawers. there is messy chaos all around me and my shoulders tighten up with irritation, annoyance, resentment. how does anyone write surrounded by such mess? how does a house get like this???? why do i feel like the maid?

so a different fire starts to burn. it rages hot and furious. i stomp and huff and bang around. i’m pissed off at the crap that lies around waiting to be picked up. but soon the family is out the door and the stereo goes on – wu tang clan to match the aggression bubbling up inside. incense is lit. windows are flung open. and my steps loosen, the rhythm takes over, zen descends and the cleaning feels more like purification than punishment. i begin to move without thinking, clearing a path before me in no particular order.

it was hot, so hot, on thursday night. sweat dripped down my back, under my breasts, it prickled my forehead and wet my hairline. my fingers grew pruned with washing dishes, srcubbing the grates on the stovetop, removing the ring from the bathtub. i polished glass, shined chrome, wiped fingerprints away from stainless steal, swept floors, vacuumed dust bunnies, dusted surfaces. then i dove into the pantry, organizing a mountain of bags – paper bags, plastic bags, cloth bags, shopping bags with handles, gift bags, grocery bags. next i turned to shelves – tossed papers, moved tiny objects to their true home, put coins in the piggy bank, moved turtle boy’s books to higher shelves and gave monkey girl shelves of her own down low. laundry, in a pile 3 feet high, got dumped onto the table and i started with towels, sheets, dish cloths and cloth diapers. the magician’s clothes got put into his own pile so he could fold them himself. monkey girls tiny pink things were separated from turtle boys ripped and shredded and torn play clothes. my lacey panties and white beach pants and an army of workout clothes were all folded and put into their proper homes.

all the while, the magician and the children were out playing somewhere with cool water running, meeting city neighbors, making new friends. most days, going out to play with my family is where i choose to be. often i can ignore the untidy reality of our life and run out to play instead. to watch monkey girl learn the joy of the swingset, to see turtle boy scale new heights, climging trees and walking along the top of the monkey bars as though he is scaling a catwalk, seeing the magician with the baby riding high on his shoulders – these are the things i choose to do rather than stay within the four walls and act like the housekeeper.

but sometimes, when too many of these ‘play days’ happen in a row, i need to turn inward and find order again. to come to stillness. for me stillness needs empty spaces, clean counters, a sparkling tub that waits for me if that is what i need, a desk free of clutter and torn envelopes and lists that have been fully scratched off so that i can sit down to write if that is what i need. i need the blank canvas, the weeded and tilled and fertilized soil, the invitation to create, explore, unfold, release. nothing stifles my muse like clutter and chaos. i sit down to write in a mess and the back of my neck prickles with restless unease. words will not come because my mind is stretching outward to the chores waiting to be finished.

even though the evening started with me pissed off and irritated, annoyed that my family leaves piles of crap for me to tend to, i realized halfway through the process that i was exactly where i wanted to be, doing exactly what i wanted to be doing. making room in my life for the words to come. sure, i had simply wanted to sit down and write. it was my right. it was my night for writing. i deserved the time to bring order to the wildly spinning chaos that lives within me. i had wanted to write as a gift to myself. i wanted to write because words feel good and make me feel like a creative woman instead of a housewife. but last thursday, instead of writing, i cleaned the house and it felt really good. it felt good because i was creating the space for me to turn inward and listen to the voices that whisper inside.