A Year of Morning Thanks
One Blessed Mess
Not long ago, my daughter wandered down here in the basement, and asked me a question that must have bloomed, just then, on her heart. "Would you ever think of asking someone to organize all of this?" she asked, looking dolefully on the mess.
It was a wonderful question, but, to my mind, silly. Obviously, she was wondering whether that esteemed privilege might actually belong, someday, to her. My immediate response--although I don't think I said it--was to wonder how on earth she could do it. I mean, I can't. How would she--someone who rarely walks through the basement door--know what to do with all the flotsam? I don't know how she'd do it. No matter. It seemed to me she was job-hunting.
Why? is an even more unanswerable question. It's impossible for me to imagine why anyone would want to make sense of my mess, to "organize" it somehow (on what principles? by what methodologies?), and thereby rein in the terror. Why would anyone want to do that? I don't even want the job.
I'm thinking this morning that I really should take her up on her compassionate offer. After three weeks of constant busyness, endless travel, far too many speeches and etc., I really haven't lived in the basement. I have a desk--I think--but it's buried under the detritus that somehow accumulates despite my absences. Stuff seemingly lumbers down the basement steps and ends up here in the landfill.
The desk is buried beneath a ton of debris. The floor is scattered with shoes and socks. The shelves are full of junk. A fine coat of dust makes the place look like a third-rate museum. There is, let me tell you, stuff in the basement.
No matter. What I know this morning is that after nearly as harried a month as I've had in recent years, my life can settle into the mess. What I know is that speaking engagements and trips elsewhere are finally history, and I'll be here, in residence, for several weeks.
Nothing could be finer.
This morning's thanks is a piece of cake amid the mess. I'm thankful to have been rescued from madness, thankful--finally--to stay put, thankful to be home, despite the blessed mess.
I should call my daughter.