Messiness

My mother lived to be one hundred years old. Her constant refrain was "when I get organized, I'm going to".... whatever.   Time ran out. I am my mother's daughter. I am constantly struggling to accept the reality that I am somewhat disorganized and I am messy.

The retired dentist, in the village where I lived as a youngster, is said to have always got up each weekday morning in time to watch my little self go off to school. He saw shiny oxfords, pulled up knee socks, white starched blouse tucked neatly into my strapped plaid skirt and buttoned hand knit wool sweater. An attempt had been made to tame my fly away reddish blond  curls.

Dr. Stewart's delight was in the grand transformation that had taken place in the morning. He observed a a sight to behold as I walked home for my lunch at noon. Untied shoelaces, socks at my ankles, shirt tales flying, a skirt strap dangling down my back,  often a new bandage on my knee, sweater mis-buttoned and my hair taking on the look of a bird's nest.

It wasn't that I didn't try to be neat, it just happened. I was happy to be the one that crawled under the portable to retrieve the red, white and blue rubber ball or to willingly offer the use of my sweater to carry the wounded squirrel to the  principals office. The stars destined that I be messy.

As the mother of two young children,` I almost felt efficient. The beds were made, the dishes washed and the dining room table was almost always clear of the ditrius of family living.

A time came when my husband and I parted ways. My daughters were almost grown. I was distressed  how the household order dramatically deteriorated, when their father was gone. I was disappointed my daughters did not step up in the hour of need.

It was not long, before they were off to university. The household order further deteriorated. To my surprise I decided, I was the source of the grand chaos.

I knew my former husband was neat, but his role as master organizer was vastly under rated. My daughters had inherited his sense of order. Apologies were offered and graciously accepted.

I now live in an old house by the sea. When I hear a car drive up the lane or a tap on my side door, I still scramble to create a sham and delusion of tidiness. I become aware of my dishevillment.  I know the illusion is not successful, so I struggle to embrace myself messiness and all.

I hear my mother's words. "A home should be clean enough to be healthy and messy enough to be happy."

I am in the pursuit of acceptance of happiness amidst the seemingly inevitable messiness.