I reached up to the soap dispenser on my bathroom sink and pumped it. It was empty. Again. Well, empty still would be more accurate. It’s been empty for weeks and weeks and weeks. I’m not sure how many. I reached instead for the white, unscented Dove bar soap that I keep on my bathroom vanity for washing my face. It’ll work just as well on my hands as it does on my face, I thought.
I walked to my bedroom and checked on Hubby. Did he need anything? Percocet? Water? Ice packs? As we chatted, I straightened the medical papers and physical therapy orders and then gathered the empty seltzer cans and discarded newspapers. Made mental note to dust. I went into my temporary bedroom and made the guest bed, grabbing old magazines to add to my pile.
I then plodded down the hardwood stairs. My wool clogs thudded on each stair, creating a unique rhythm. When I reached the base of the stairs, my mud room greeted me with furniture piled on top of furniture. Rolled rugs and chairs comingled with assorted miscellaneous stuff. The kind of stuff that ends up in the junk drawer; my mom always called it Flotsam and Jetsam. Broken plastic toy parts, a spring from a dismantled pen, a folded Uno card. A school paper with holding no sentimental value yet, there it was, taunting me on the top of the shit pile. What is all this shit? Why do we have it? I want to get rid of it. I eked around the heaped stuff and threw the papers and cans into the recycling bins. I headed to the kitchen; our hardwood floors, recently refinished, shone and reflected the piles of moreshit on the counters. The things that usually live on the pantry floor now lived on my counters. I cannot wait to put everything back in its place.
Everything back in its place. And a place for everything. I adore gleaming counters and tidy spaces. Conversely, messy places, both mental and physical unravel me. When it’s messy, I’m twitching.
Life doesn’t necessarily check-in before it serves up more. No magic neat slots (complete with a laminated label) were appearing for my Life. Really, what would the label read for my current set of circumstances? Bronchitis. Pneumonia. Hardwood floors. Carpenter ants. Displaced furniture. Spring breaks. No writing. Sick kids. Hubby’s shoulder surgery (unable to use his right arm, in a sling, in bed).
I generally view my life through a lens of gratitude. I am grateful for the small, velvety fledgling green buds adorning a tree. I give thanks for my driveway covered in children’s chalk drawings. I appreciate the view from my dish-washing perch and the warmth of a sun-soaked andirondak chair. Yet the last weeks, as the days layered one upon another, my ability to give genuine thanks was muted. I kept doing it, though. I gave thanks for the hardwood floors and our ability to spruce them up, for the money to pay for the carpenter ant mitigation, for the success of Hubby’s surgery and for my ability and desire to care for him. Usually when I give thanks, I feel buoyant, carbonated bubbles of grateful recognition in my soul and belly. Lately, instead, I felt flat.
Often, when I’m driving, or walking, or washing dishes–doing anything, really, a word or phrase will turn over and over in my head. The last weeks, I’ve been mentally working the word Fault Lines. Specifically, I’ve been considering why exactly fault lines are called fault lines. There’s so much power (negative power in my opinion) locked up in the word fault. Can one really blame the earth for buckling and releasing pent-up pressure when pushed too far, beyond her limits?
One afternoon last week, I holed up in the library for about two hours to gather my thoughts and put some words to paper. I’d reached my fill of living and needed time and space for thought. I felt waves of raw emotion coursing just beneath the surface, my resolve and steady fortitude of the last weeks beginning to give. To crack. So I sat in my thoughts and emotions and pounded out each one onto my trusty lap top. When done, I walked outside thinking I was fairly sure that I’d never write another valuable word again. I paused and extended myself some kindness; any muscle will atrophy when left sedentary. (My writing muscles and my stomach muscles suddenly had a lot in common.) In my periphery, the sky caught my attention. I looked up:
Charcoals and fractures of blues and cracked, intricate clouds met my eyes. I felt the missed, yet familiar, low rolling purr of gratitude. Look, I thought, even the clouds have fault lines. See, they’re just like me. Cracked, imperfect, beautiful, faulted. Fault lines. Once again, I mentally turned the words over in my mind. Those faults? Maybe they’re merely openings, parting to let in the light. To let in the life. Every last bit of it.