Morning Pages — 13

So it’s been a few days since the last morning pages.

Which really brings home something I’ve been struggling with — it’s damn hard to be a creator without a lot of personal time or space. Holding time sacred really relies on a few different things. And in times when I am traveling or I am under a lot of work pressure, those rare moments of quiet don’t happen.

And all of this is a really fancy way of saying I don’t have time for myself.

I’ve been doing little things trying to improve my perception of my home. I’m one of the lucky few who has a space to call their own, but it hasn’t really felt like mine because I am sharing it with my husband and child. My husband doesn’t care about home and space at all — he’s grown up surrounded by hoarders and doesn’t really understand the idea of a home being anything but chaotic. It literally just doesn’t register to him that habits like throwing chicken bones in the sink leads to ants, or just putting things back in the same place all the time is a thing. It’s frustrating.

Growing up, I was always the messy one in a clean family. I was the absent minded professor, normally under a pile of clothing and books and papers. But that was against a backdrop of clean, spare, uncluttered surroundings. As a teen, I never understood the time it must have taken my mom to clean everything so spotless, or why she cleaned the house even when she was too depressed to get out of bed.

But as an adult, I understand.

Cleanliness is a war on apathy.

It’s about having one thing (if only one thing) in your day go right and be exactly as you want it.

This may be why some of the poorest women I’ve ever met have been some of the cleanest women I’ve ever met. It’s not a rule, mind you, but a lot of women take solace in having a clean home, even if they live in a place overrun by roaches and rats. I think of Ana, who cleaned other people’s homes all day long, and then would come back to her apartment and clean again, just to feel collected. In the beginning, the boys I babysat would tear through the house, unthinking. Later, as they realized how hard their mama worked, they would quietly begin picking up after themselves, so she wouldn’t have a lot to do when she came home.

A long ago boyfriends mother didn’t have much. She didn’t speak English and was trying to keep three kids fed and clothed while living in a two bedroom apartment. But that apartment always smelled like Pine-Sol, any time I walked in the door.

It must be the little rituals that keep you sane.

These days, I generally look around my home in dismay. There isn’t really enough of me to stem the tide. I’m home “early” (around 5 or 6) once or twice a week. One of the last times I had time, I went to my front porch. I cut back all the weeds, which took an hour and left red welts across my arms. I trimmed the hedges by hand. I asked my husband to wind some decorative lights around the awning. And my husband and son (the tiny greenthumb) put together windowboxes of flowers. The kid likes his watering can and meticulously waters all the flowers.

Last night, we took a long walk and realized the key wasn’t at home. So we were locked out. I turned on the porch lights, and the toddlers eyes lit up. We sat in the dark, surrounded by little lanterns and flowers, until my husband returned with a key.

And we were fine.

So, I guess I have to take heart. Keep putting the pieces together, even if I’m fighting a losing battle, and work toward a better day. I have a Diptyque candle I treated myself to, bought from the St. Germain store in Paris.

When my space is finally where I want it, I will finally light the candle.