Messy house

My brain is hard wired to our apartment. Every sock left on the floor sends a ripple of disturbance through the equilibrium of my mind. The sink piled high with dishes is like a knot of congestion in the very forefront of my thoughts. The toy boxes all over turned, contents trailing from room to room, makes me a definite frontrunner for complete mental collapse. I would be better suited to a monastic life. Hotel rooms, void of any and all personal affects, make me giddy with inner peace and contentment. I fantasize about moving to Japan for the sole pleasure of being forced to purge the majority of our belongings.

Cleaning our apartment is much like painting a bridge. Even before I can finish, daily life is creeping in on the edges, eroding my efforts. I never reach the end. Straightening up only creates an opening for a new mess to land in its place. I could very realistically spend every minute of everyday cleaning and not once, for as long as I have children underfoot (or a husband!), have a home that shows my efforts. Nobody is on board in keeping the place tidy. I try to tell them, neat apartment equals happy (and therefore nice) Mama, but its to no avail. The pursuit of order is hopeless. Meanwhile my studio space sits, collecting dust, as my life passes by, sacrificed in pursuit of a clean home. Something needs to change, and I’m afraid it is me.

The house can wait. It will still be messy if I spend the morning drawing. In fact, it will still be messy if I spend the morning cleaning. So why not draw instead? Drawing makes me feel connected to the world, integrated with myself, alive. The choice should be easy, but each day it feels like an insurmountable challenge to choose to draw.