I’ll be honest: what I want most in life is simplicity. I want my closet to contain a handful of 50s style dresses, a la June Cleaver; classic feminine style that makes getting dressed a one-thought deal. I hate clutter and piles of papers and closets that threaten an avalanche every time I open the door. I despise kitchen counters with too many gadgets and remotes strewn about the coffee table. My to-do list grows longer and stronger each day, no matter how many items I defiantly check off. I recycle and reuse and reorganize, but still find a bookcase stuffed with old magazines and skirts in my closet that I’ve never worn. Call me crazy, but this stuff really gets to me. I do not like to throw around the word hate, but I do, I hate it.
My life really has come a long way, though, and for that I am eternally grateful. I no longer dread each day and hold back tears whenever I think about my job. As I write this now, there is a stock pot of chicken stock simmering on the stove and a loaf of bread in the oven. My husband is mowing the lawn and I’m listening to Simon and Garfunkel. Most things in my home have a place, and a rhythm. But I’m tired of wanting, of coveting, of forever sprinting towards the next big thing that will make my life easier, simpler, perfect. I want this. Maybe one day I will get there, but for now, I’m left stumbling blindly in the commercial world of go, go, go.
My husband says I haven’t written here in a while because now I’m happier, that this space was more of an escape for me before. While I do agree, I also think it has to do with my desire, or need, for simple perfection. I cannot just zip out a post, throw down a recipe and call it a day. I need to reread, rewrite, look at different angles, different pictures, different versions of me that I am willing to put out there, into that wide open world. So I give you this, a post that was typed once, not spell-checked, not reread or toiled over. It is written, and it is done. It might not flow as well as I would like, or have the perfect word for that perfect sentence, but there it is. Now I’ll get back to that bookcase of magazines, rereading and recycling, one at a time.