Today’s last-minute before-school panicked rummaging involved rainboots. AppleApple had outgrown hers (“I can wear them but I have to curl my toes up …”), but Albus refused to wear his; problem solved. Except Albus’s boots spent summer on the back porch and were filled with leaves and spider webs. AppleApple is terrified of spiders. “Why does this keep happening?” I asked the universe, re the last-minute scrambling, but the universe knew it was a rhetorical question.
How do I frame the minutiae that happens throughout my day? Yesterday, it felt like things were going wrong, no matter what I tried. It was raining and I was running errands with the bike stroller. I was late, or nearly late, for every appointment. On the piano outing, I forgot all but my head and ran comically back and forth between house and vehicle, locking and unlocking the front door, back and forth, as I remembered this that and the other forgotten and critical item.
But I could also have summed up the day by remembering all the things that went well. I actually remembered everything we needed for piano before leaving the driveway, for example. Albus got himself safely home from school. The little kids were in bed at a reasonable hour. Supper tasted good. Kevin arrived home earlier than expected. I started writing in the voice of a new character. Running errands with just one friendly three-year-old is pretty easy and he never even complained about the rain.
But truthfully, I was frazzled for large portions of the day, and that frazzled feeling defined the day’s events.
I do wonder, do people have jobs where, when they’re done for the day, they feel done? And they go home and relax? I find myself romanticizing: home versus job. If job were separate from home, would it be easier to come home and relax? And if home is where I work (home office, as well as all of the domestic labour required to keep home running), then where is that non-work comfort space? Can I find it here?
I wonder if I’m romanticizing the idea of a home office, too. Because within a couple of months, I will have a real actual genuine home office, an 8 x 10 room of my own. Pictured above is the door that will lead to this still-imaginary space. We met with the builder this morning to discuss details (read: pricing), and work will begin on this project (which includes rebuilding the front porch) within a week or two. (!!) Am I romanticizing the idea of stepping into that new office space and shutting the door? Will just being in that room bring me a sense of comfort and relaxation and peace, here at home? Will I be able to sit in my office and read, for pleasure? Nap in my office? Dream in my office? I hope so. I hope I won’t feel obligated to work work work all the time in there.
Dreams and naps and, yes, even reading leave no trace, no record, no scratch on the surface of life. They take you underground. Which brings me around to my overwhelming impulse to record, to make, to create artifacts and stories and loaves of bread. (And blogs). In between the doing, hidden behind it, making it possible, is the quietness of dreaming and drifting and filling up the spirit and the soul with … with the ineffable, with all of the quiet elusive private unnecessary/necessary trails underneath that can’t be pinned down.
Is this happening during my frazzled scrambling days?