Holidays

I’m shoveling out the holiday aftermath. Ripped boxes, shredded paper, torn ribbons, untwisted twisty ties (you know, the parent-tormentor variety used to anchor toys to their packaging securely enough to survive a plane crash), half-eaten candy canes, little lumps of red and green metallic foil from various Christmas chocolates, sliced-open plastic casing (only kitchen shears are tough enough for the job), and scraps of scotch tape that I had to peel off the carpet and wood floor. This is a dangerous job. For one thing, that shorn plastic stuff is way sharp. For another, all this shoveling triggers my “let’s burn the house down and start over” fantasy. Most of the time I manage the mechanics of living with a small amount of grace. I haul in plastic sacks of groceries, I haul out plastic sacks of garbage. I carry baskets of filthy clothes downstairs and carry baskets of clean clothes back up (approximately 15 loads a week, mind you). I carry food and dishes onto the dinner table and then carry food-covered dishes back to the counter. I load food into mouths and then … ahem … unload it approximately 24 hours later (red meat excluded). A home is a living, breathing beast with undeniable needs and predictable digestion. I used to live under the delusion that this beast could be tamed. That if I worked hard enough and planned well enough, I could attend to all its needs so thoroughly that it will lean back in its chair, sigh contentedly, and sleep for a few days. I used to attempt this, to some degree, every Saturday (the special day). There have been Saturday evenings when all the planets have aligned, all the chores have been completed, and all my sanity has not spilled in the process. With all other sentient beings tucked in for the night, I have stood in the dark, quiet belly of the sleeping beast, scrubbed clean, and breathed a deep sigh of exquisite contentment. I’m craving that extra-long pause, an abiding, resonating tone of silence wherein all is bare and clean, maybe next year.