Wonderful
With mention of Peter Matthiessen and his book: The Snow Leopard
I know you'll think I'm being sarcastic,
but I'm not.
You see, as I started to ‘clean’ my house
all I could see was this:
I have 3 broken doors in my house and
couches we got for free on the side of the road…
at least five years ago.
They are perpetually covered in dog fur and one has a ripped arm rest.
On the floor there are potholders mixed in with small electronics projects,
endless wandering socks,
lost earrings, forgotten spoons,
and a Christmas candle window light that may never work again, and it's no loss.
I have a huge basket of mending,
three sleeping bags blocking my piano waiting to be washed,
and music for said piano everywhere.
There's a tall music stand for the violin player who is gone most of the summer, and little piles of reminders of her everywhere.
There are decorations for literally every holiday known to mankind all over my house because there are some no one could bare to put away.
My chandelier is a sham, and it hits everyone in the head,
my kitchen ceiling fan hasn't worked in years.
There are trinkets from art camp, youth gatherings, concerts, gymnastics meets, and cross-stitch projects overflowing from every surface.
There is a guinea pig living on my dining room table.
There are two more upstairs.
There's a finger sized fern living on my teen-agers desk and it is my job to keep it alive for weeks at a time while she's gone.
My blankets are ratty,
my towels are shredded,
and in general my entire family has a blatant disregard for laundry,
until they need a specific Leo immediately and we haven't seen it in weeks,
or discover five minutes before we walk out the door that a school uniform shirt is ripped.
We have mugs for cups,
blankets for curtains,
and we brush our teeth in the bathtub because the water to the sink is broken,
and currently, it's my room that's a mess.
Of course,
There's the Lego nativity Noah made me,
And the long string of driftwood and seashells hanging in my dining room that took my husband's hands to create.
There's the little blue sherry glass Anna long ago insisted on bringing home and giving me as a gift.
There's the cardboard angel Lexi made me,
And the typed and alphabetized list of recipes Anna made for the back of my handwritten habblescrabble recipe book
and the tiny blue rain scented candle that my penniless neighbor child gave me that will always hold a place in my heart.
You see, Ethan Allen doesn't live here.
But my life is full of children and friends, and love in every way. Those guitars in the corner?
We play those.
That violin in the table?
I hear it almost every night.
That bass in the back of the choir?
I dream of him singing whatever I just heard him sing.
That couch cushion on the floor?
Look out for the backflip.
It may seem that the physical is falling apart,
But the real is still there.
And when I come down off my mountain of expectation,
And you ask me if I saw it,
I'm going to cry:
“No! Isn't that wonderful?”
