I bet I could read Katrina Kenison’s How We Spend Our Days essay every morning and take away something different. But what’s striking me at this moment is how she’s able to find beauty in the not-so-obvious things. It’s been a long time since I was even conscious of this idea.
This morning, before I reach for my laptop, I need to get a few things done. I water the houseplants, fill the birdfeeder, start a load of laundry and vacuum the dog hair off the floor. Scrub the stubborn remnants from last night’s roasting pan, carry the recycling out to the bin, straighten the magazines on the coffee table, scribble a grocery list for later.
Setting the house to rights is unavoidably, irrevocably, part of my process.
It is not a part of mine.
The house we live in has been a good house, a great house even. We’ve lived here since 1990, so the kids grew up here. Each person in our family had his or her own room. And we have rooms big enough for all of us. We were a family of six here. We can be a family of twelve here, and then some. This house has not lost its usefulness.
But I have disconnected from it. This house that I used to love, that we built to fit our family, I no longer love.
I know, as with other posts in this project, that there is more. But my gosh, it took me two and a half hours of writing and deleting to figure out what I was writing about and now my brain is fried.