There’s a small Japanese maple tree outside my kitchen window and the fairy wrens have started visiting. The males loose their blue at this time of year; their feathers fade to brown to mark the end of the mating season. These tiny birds, which flit and hop around the garden, are a beautiful distraction when I avert my eyes from the kitchen counters which are inevitably covered in all manner of miscellany; knives smeared in butter, drops of jam from lavishly spread toast, a box of dutch creams and a stack of plates and cups not yet washed.
I’ve learnt to see past and through these things because I’d rather be (and need to be) writing than washing dishes or worrying about housework. Getting words on the page is more fulfilling than a clean house. Besides, there will always be the dishes. The words? They may float off elsewhere if I don’t secure them now.
I didn’t always think like this and for a long time, I felt trapped by the monotony of home and housework, downtrodden by the jobs that never got done because there was always a baby to feed or a toddler pulling something apart. That early motherhood season is inherently messy but I tried (how I tried!) to tidy and clean and create order because it felt like the right thing at the time. I now know this was controlling the controllable. But what did I really need? To go outside and get grounded, to know that nothing is ever finished and that there will always be the laundry (zero point trying to get to the bottom of the basket), and to separate myself and my sense of productivity (and success) from the way my house looked.
I knew what I wanted in that stage of life but I had no idea what I needed.