Photo by Wendy Idele, ’93
If there’s a surface in my house
That doesn’t have a heap of things piled on it
I can’t find it.
Most of the time I can turn a blind eye—
90% of the time, I don’t give a crap.
But that other 10% is a doozy.
Suddenly all my lack of caring
Is condensed into one hard hairball of bothering.
I’m so bothered, in fact, by the chaos
That I dig out clippings from the local classifieds
Of people eager to dispatch my mess.
I’m on the verge of picking up the phone
When something stops me.
I read somewhere that creative types
Need chaos to thrive.
Well that’s my excuse.
My other argument goes something like this:
When I let go of my perception of chaos
I’m being very Zen,
And let’s face it, we all need to be more Zen.
Melissa Shaw-Smith 
So true…
I can’t decide whether I’m too tired, too overwhelmed, or just conveniently indifferent to the chaos that keeps me from taking a more active role in ordering my house. A little bit of all, I suspect.
When we got a puppy at the end of October I had no idea what I was in for. I thought I knew, but then, alas, I realized how woefully unprepared I was for the commitment to yet another life, to say nothing of the dog hair. My house was chaotic enough before Hugo arrived but then I had the illusion that it was all order-able given the time and stamina to focus on the mess of the moment. Now, the disorder is downright impressive.
When I do make an effort, I have in the back of my mind that the urge to purge is a throwback to the days, pre-child and dog, when there was the illusion of order. When there seemed to be a clear direction, and the momentum to go with, it to make things run well. Now, in my darkest moments, I think back to those days and wonder if there really was order, or just more time to indulge myself. It seems to me that if you’re breathing you will not escape turbulence because it lurks. I’ve noticed that if there isn’t one sort of figurative mess tormenting me there’s another.
I sometimes manage to convince myself that my muddle is relative and clear evidence that I am living in the muck and mire of real life, in all its glory, and isn’t that honest living. I spend my days trying to balance one bit of agitation with another and occasionally, the balancing act works and I feel a fleeting sort of contentment.
Judy, it’s all a question of balance–those fleeting moments when we feel in control and all’s right with the world. May the year bring you many moments of perfect balance!