I admit, I’ve been frustrated before, with a long day at work and a cluttered homecoming.
Not today, but as I look at the room around me, I imagine.
Small couch-pillows lie askew on the ground and propped up against the loveseat.
A prostrate pink bear is settled and unmoving from the pressure of bouncing knees, or a steady gaze.
Papers with the scribbles of trees, flowers, friends, family – these are graced by multicolor strokes, vibrant energy in visible form.
But they lie on the ground, dog-eared, a flowing stream off the bottom shelf.
An open basket sits waiting and makes me wonder what resulted in its emptiness.
Maybe heedless and unnecessary, but maybe purposeful, even creative?
The dog sighs from the solitary bare patch on the floor.
His space on the couch is occupied by that poor, praising bear.
Watching the scene from the highest tower, my books watch with disdain.
They are lofty and ready for action, but just as unlovely to most observers.
Mess is often the proof of life lived, while the clean speaks of lost time and regret.
I consider briefly that my workspace must be ordered, but the periphery need not.
My children’s workspace is my home.
So I sit here and can only smile.