Cold Weather

Posted on 06 November 2005

An early fall Sunday morning. It’s cold. Leaves accumulate in the back garden. I grab my camera and take a picture of the new deck. Strange how something so simple (though expensive) can give me pleasure.

Work at home

I have been in the mood, the last few months, to clean up and clear out all the superfluous “stuff” in our house. I am shocked that it takes so much time and energy though it feels good. Both Rob and I have ignored our home base for too long. The only problem is that there’s still too much to do. The whole house needs a paint job minus the office. One bathroom needs replaced. And our closets are stuffed and messy. If a house represents the body, in Jungian terms, then mine still needs a lot of work. I understand now the smell and clutter and dust of an old person’s home. She or he or both stop looking at the little things or are just too achy to sort and clean. And what does it matter? Does it? I have always admired people with messy homes but I like my place shining and organized, not for show, but for ease of living, to be able to find what I need, to walk in the house and like the smell.

Yesterday, I met with my plums and we spoke of writing and not writing, of thinking that we would get down to the hard task of creating when all else in our life has been taken care of. But life isn’t like that. Still I hope the pause I’ve taken from trying to write to catch up on, what I call, boring detail is worth the delay… here I grow despondent. Who am I trying to kid?

On a nicer note: Last night, Rob lit a fire in the fireplace (thank goodness) in the livingroom and I baked rack of lamb with lots of garlic and pepper, boiled baby red potatoes, steamed zuchini just the way Susan taught me; and we sat on the floor at the coffee table, listened to jazz music and ate. Home alone.


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