Out of Focus

 

Sometimes I miss the daffodils. Not miss them as in, "Why don’t they write?" (that's my dad's favorite quote from Dances with Wolves. I try to slip it into casual conversation when I can. Nobody ever gets it, so I laugh all by myself. Like now).  No, I literally miss them, as in, didn’t notice that they pushed their determined emerald leaves up out of the cold, sleeping earth, shot a beautiful straight stem skyward, and burst forth with a ruffly, buttery yellow, utterly clean and perfectly formed bloom. 

It’s kind of not my fault. The guy who planted them years ago put them on the backside of the house, where I seldom wander. Also, if a single raindrop falls on one of them, they melodramatically collapse under the ridiculous weight of it and lay on the ground sideways to bloom. They still bloom, but unless you have your nose at ground level you might not notice.

We actually managed to go outside Saturday and scrape together a few hundred branches that had distributed themselves around the property after the last big snowstorm (ha ha, big for us.  Hey, a foot of snow is a lot if you’re expecting two inches).  I didn't do much, as breathing is still hard.  One round trip up the driveway with a loaded wagon was enough for me.  As Natalie flitted around the yard pretending to work, she discovered that the daffodils had bloomed. I tasked her to gather any of them that had collapsed so that we could bring them in the house to enjoy.

She did, and I got my special Japanese style vase down (okay, who are we kidding? I’m too short to get it down. I called Adam, who I call “Tall Boy” when I need something that’s up high, or "Strong Boy" when I need something heavy moved, and he got it down for me.  I do. I literally shout, “Tall Boy!” and he comes to my rescue. Such a good human).

I showed Nano the cool little spiky frog in the bottom of the vase that allows the blooms to stand upright, statuesque and lovely, and together we arranged them. Then I cleared off the counter, actually wiped it this time, and we admired our flowers.

And I had to focus. Just on the flowers. Because of course, the counters behind them were full of dirty dishes. As were the sinks. And the stove was messy. And don’t get me started on the  nasty floor.  Covid is a butt-kicker and the house is the kick-ee.

Yes, I had to focus very hard on the flowers.

Days are short. There will always be dishes to wash. I love all of you folks who always keep a clean sink. I admire you very much. You have figured out either a rhythm in your life or some boss parenting skills that I have yet to master. 

I have to choose what I focus on. And in that moment it was flowers.  As I did, I very literally felt a lightness come into my heart that invited the colors around me to be more lively, the fabrics and wood grain more interesting.  It was like my surroundings were being put through an Instagram beauty filter.  

Resolve is fickle, and I will soon forget Saturday afternoon.  I always do.  Why do we have to learn the same lessons again and again... and again?  I should overhaul the inspired prayer they recite in AA meetings and hang it on my mirror to remind me.

"God, grant me the strength to clean the things I can,

 the courage to leave the messes that aren't that important right now, 

and the wisdom to focus on daffodils."

Excavation

Six weeks of Covid does things to one's brain… I mean, home.  Juicy spiders have set up permanent residences in high corners, and the tiny carcasses of itty bitty flies are piled up on window ledges beneath them.  Laundry is figuratively and very literally piled up, and if Guy didn't do all the shopping, we would have gone full Donner Party over here by now.  The kids, as kids will do, have taken full advantage of my somewhat reduced capacity to patrol the perimeter around here. I certainly hope the Queen doesn’t drop by.

Being sick has given me the opportunity to sit limply in a recliner, my head lolling to one side, and watch the canary feathers swirling in dust on the floor, fanaticizing over having enough energy to lay on my belly and cough them into a pile. That's sort of like cleaning, right?

I stood in the doorway this morning surveying the kitchen table, mentally replaying the all too familiar “mess soundtrack”; the one that identifies to whom each abandoned item belongs and practices a worn out parental lecture, including a not-so-gentle scold as I am forced to acknowledge ownership of several of the items myself. Such a tired old song, that one.

But then my eyes caught the eggs, or they caught me.  I mean, the eggs were… pretty.  They really were just so lovely, there in the window’s gentle blue light, that I got distracted from my usual rant - forgot the words to my discouraged and discourag-ing dirge.  The hen’s eggs, with their greens, in two powdery shades, softly contrasting with the beiges and coppery browns, not to mention the precious speckled quail’s eggs. Did you know that if you pick up a sweet little quail egg right after it’s been laid, still all toasty-warm, the speckles will come right off on your fingers? You do now.  I love the repetition of the shapes, and gosh they looked so magical in my handmade ceramic bowls.  

The eggs put me in a funny little happy mood.  I took a few pictures of them, and stood there smiling. 

Then, there was a pause.  

And with it, I suddenly noticed something.  I began seeing every object on the table in that same thoughtful way.  The table was like an archeological dig of the past few days.  

First the eggs… well, we had recently retrieved those from a friend’s house who allows us to bring them home when we are attending her critters.  There were the school books.  Jonah was so good on Thursday helping Natalie stay on track when I needed to rest.  Next to them were the clippers I used on Friday to give Adam a haircut.  I have to admit, I kinda loved having a chance to help him.  There aren't many opportunities like that these days.  Young men don’t need much from their mamas after a while.

There was the times tables chart.  We have been working on those dang things so hard lately.  And then on top of a stack of writing journals sat Jonah's beautiful drawing.  He's so intuitive.   I am inspired by the markings that boy makes every time he picks up a pencil.

There was the Halloween craft that Kathy and I worked on Wednesday.  Sweet Kathy has come all the way out to our woods nearly every month since we moved here almost five years ago, and we craft together.  It's how we commune with one another.  It is a friendship built on the mutual love of texture and color and held together with mod podge and wood glue.

Oh, gosh! And the spiders I made!  The kids love them, so the sparkling arachnids have been joyfully, if not slightly creepily, traveling around the house in their glistening steampunky glory. 

Aw, then there was Minnie and Moo.  Best book ever.  Natalie has been reading it to me.  Sorta.  It's slow going.  Sooooo.  Slooooow.  But it is funny, which helps me stay patient.  And it reminds me of how hard-won the skill of reading has been in this household. Only two of our six haven’t struggled with reading. So, I have found ways to entertain myself in the many monotonous hours of sooooooound-iiiiiing oooouuut wuh-ooooords. God bless you, Minnie and Moo.   

The ipad.  Nano listens to ebooks constantly, which has given that little redheaded sprite a mighty vocabulary.  It is resplendent.

The long bowl of legos, which has been in the center of the table for two months.  It started out full back in January, but now there are robots and blocky creatures deposited all over the house, reminding me of how the kids will sit visiting around the table for hours, creating magic with their hands and bonds with their hearts. During a particularly intense two day sprint some weeks ago, Adam and Jonah built intricate weapons that could be loaded and cocked, all out of their imaginations. I hope Jonah will always remember sitting on the floor next to his brother for 16 hours making guns that can’t be fired.

The bag in the chair. It’s full of 16+ bottles of medicines and supplements, waiting to be sorted into my pill box; a reminder of how hard I have been working to improve my autoimmune conditions.  Yay me.

That messy table is almost like a cave drawing, or the excavation of a field where once, hundreds of years ago, vivid and important things took place. Lives were lived. Hair was trimmed, books were read, and meals were cooked and eaten, all around a table that no longer exists, in a house that no longer stands.

Therefore I must conclude, my friends, that this is not a messy table at all. It is an archaeological find of greatest significance.