My life is a mess. Well my life isn't actually a mess, but I am presently living in a world of messiness.
The Income Tax Forms are sent in on time, although the act of searching out numbers has left behind a veritable mass of wasted forest that eventually took over a room. I thought computers were meant to make paper obsolete.
It is a fine thing to be able to shut off unneeded rooms to keep other rooms, being used throughout the winter, with more heat.
Into these unused rooms mysteriously drift the flotsam and jetsam of everyday living. Unfortunately when the warmer weather arrives, the doors must be opened to let the fresh spring breezes wisp throughout the house. The contents of the unused rooms is a blemish on any sense of order, even mine. The collection of Frenchie aprons, for some forgotten reason, cover the bed. Books weep from the bookcases. Christmas ditrius doesn't look the least bit merry at this time of year. Is that pile of clothes meant to be taken to the Red Cross Bin or reclaimed for the glorious days of summer? Why did I have all of those old picture frames out? Why are my best snow boots in there?
It is possible to keep the doors closed another week or two, but an imprint of it all is stored away in that place for disorder in my brain, refuses to be put aside indefinitely.
....... and then my poor, neglected garden. There are always good reasons why the beds weren't tucked in nicely for the long winter sleep, but once again I am left to struggle to discern which are beauties and which are weeds. The weeds will have time to thrive until the other plants make their identities known.
The shrubs haven't been trimmed. Winter's leftovers, shovels, windshield scraper, lost mittens litter the yard. The lawn is scruffy. I'm not even going to talk about my dog Moses' winter contributions.
In time, most things will find more or less appropriate spots. I will sit on the porch in a wicker chair with a cup of tea watching the flags flutter.
These past few months, I feel like I have had a little too much in common with Florence Nightingale. I can understand how when she returned to England, she took to her bed. But if I want to leave my Crimea behind, I must forge on ahead towards summer, when all must be welcoming for my friends and family.
However I plan to take to my bed sometimes, until the birds convince me with their songs, it is time to be up and out to embrace the day. I'm still a little weary.
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