One of a few entries I posted elsewhere pre-October 2010, before I (officially) started The Roving Home blog.
My son’s habitual slobbery – though he is but a wee lad – is already breathtaking at times, prompting one of his aunts to make the following observation more than once while watching him dribble through his meals: “You know, there are messy babies and neat babies…and he is a messy baby.”
And yet. There are moments, even in his celebrated messiness, when some sort of innate desire for order – at some level, no matter how humble – penetrates the pile of detritus in his room like a shot of sunlight through fog. A few days ago I demanded that he clean his room and told him I would check on his progress. When I arrived, I found this:
He had sorted his books, previously scattered throughout the four corners of his room, into a grid. Then I began to observe the other little signs of order amidst the chaos and realized each visit to the beach over the last several weeks yielded a stone or shell, which he lined up along the porch railing after returning home. And the items are all white, except for a purplish one I placed there and to which he objected – a fact I hardly noticed at the time.
My house (my life) falls far short of what I hope it will be – what I know it can be. I look around and think: “There are neat homes and messy homes…and I have a messy home.”
But I think of my son and know there is hope. The desire for order, to make sense of the chaos, will triumph, even if only for a moment, in the smallest of ways, a line of white rocks against the looming dark.