There is laundry whirring and tumbling its way clean. I am winning my annual war on ants. There is an explosion of doll clothes and Legos in the living room, sheets that need to be changed on the beds. Tiny bits of wood and motes of dust and ash have found their ways to the corners of the hearth. I have work to do today.
This is the stuff of life. It is the every day. These are the things that we do that become undone, only to be done again. These are the sand castles we build, only to be washed away by the tides of being alive.
My husband wears his socks to bed, he takes them off as he falls asleep and drops them on the floor. I am grateful for this farm of wadded little black sheep. The toes pulled through the tops in groggy haste look like noses peeking out through rumpled bundles of fleece. I collect them to me and corral them in my basket. I will wash them and dry them and turn them into rabbits - floppy ears of toes sticking out of their bodies joined in pairs.
I will bastardize Robert Frost in my head as I work "and piles to go before I sleep", I will pray for my friend who is having her 5th round of chemo today. I will conjure her face, recently devoid of eyebrows and lashes, but yet still smiling: positive, ready, in grateful awe of the doctors who are trying to save her life. My thoughts will drift from this beautiful soul to another sole entirely and wonder if the market will sell me a whole fish. "I am going to knit it a hat out of green onions and lemongrass," I will explain to the fishmonger, who will undoubtedly, in his thick apron slick with guts and scales, smile and shake his head and wrap my purchase in brown paper.
I will approach these sand castles with gratitude. The folding of socks, the scolding of ants, the molding of plans in my head. I have a love who shares my bed with his big, smelly feet. Spring has come and everything is waking up, which means the ants are stretching and seeking sustenance for their queen. I have hope and vision, a sense of things to come. As I build my daily sand castles, I am etching things in stone: this love, this awakening, this vision. These things I build every day that cannot be washed away.
This is the stuff of life. It is the every day. These are the things that we do that become undone, only to be done again. These are the sand castles we build, only to be washed away by the tides of being alive.
My husband wears his socks to bed, he takes them off as he falls asleep and drops them on the floor. I am grateful for this farm of wadded little black sheep. The toes pulled through the tops in groggy haste look like noses peeking out through rumpled bundles of fleece. I collect them to me and corral them in my basket. I will wash them and dry them and turn them into rabbits - floppy ears of toes sticking out of their bodies joined in pairs.
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| Photo courtesy of mourguefile.com |
I will approach these sand castles with gratitude. The folding of socks, the scolding of ants, the molding of plans in my head. I have a love who shares my bed with his big, smelly feet. Spring has come and everything is waking up, which means the ants are stretching and seeking sustenance for their queen. I have hope and vision, a sense of things to come. As I build my daily sand castles, I am etching things in stone: this love, this awakening, this vision. These things I build every day that cannot be washed away.
