It's the time of year that everything around the house is beginning to reach tettering stacks. Every time I open our school cabinet, dog-eared and waterlogged books fall on me. Every. Time. I've stopped putting books away and still they fall on me. The art cabinet is worse. fluorescent pipecleaners fall on my head like crumbled halos. The boys' drawers, stuffed full of ALL their clothes, their entire wardrobe, summer and winter, is probably the worst of all. They don't close. I've stopped trying to make them close. I imagine that their shirts will coalesce and become sentient, probably I'd just assume it was one of my kids and feed it too. Then we'd be in the Twilight Zone. Abandoned art projects and overgrown science experiments that smell sort of weird spill off my desk covering important papers--I assume? I think they're important. I don't know what's under there. I'm always hopeful for a check but usually it's just unpaid bills that I forgot to put on autodraft. Caleb loves the study because it's tucked away in a corner of our house and he doesn't have to look at it.
This time of year stacks up into precarious piles of busyness and accumulating neglect, even for homeschoolers. It's like a SURPRISE CHRISTMAS! But without the countdown or the helpful warning or the festiveness.
This morning, I stood in mountain pose in front of my messy desk, my hands in prayer position like I do at the end of a yoga practice I bowed and said, "namaste."
Namaste poetry book we didn't read this year.
Namaste wilting bean plants of science.
Namaste orchid I didn't mean to stress to death. I will try to bring you back, but based on your position at the back, I wouldn't get my hopes up.
Namaste countless art projects that make the kids turn into Gollum MY PRECIOUSSSSSSSS when I furtively glance in their direction.
Namaste ambitious books I was going to read for personal edification. Two years ago. I'll relocate you to my nightstand so I feel like I did something with you. Then I will stare at you before I drift off to sleep, resenting your silent judgement as you collect dust.
Namaste all of Josie's everything, markers with the caps off, paint splatters on your table, your whole entire little kitchen crammed into this room, which is the catchall for everything we put away in a hurry when company is coming over and we pretend like we don't live here. Which has been SOP for the last 5 months.
Namaste overstuffed electric pencil sharpener. When I open you, it will be like glitter. A big puff of graphite glitter in my face.
Namaste coffee cups I've forgotten about 2 mornings in a row. I am sad because one of you is half full. (The coffee cup is always half full)
Namaste birthday cards I forgot to send. I beamed them some love during my prayer time and sent a text.
As I write this, my desk is full of people--Connor is coding, the pile next to him just slid off the desk with a fantastic clatter. Josie and Finnly set themselves up to paint while I was doing chores, just slapped down some paper under their paintings on top of the mountains of books and papers around it. They're all singing, Josie a little behind, like a chorus in around.
There's happy making all around me. Sometimes the kids give me the side-eye, when they can see me assessing the messes we make, "Sorry, Mommy, for the mess."
I heave a heavy sigh--because there's always a reckoning when we really get to making--and say, "Little makers make a mess of happiness." They light up and proudly display their current piece, whatever it is, before depositing it in a collection of collections of precious things and curated treasure trash.
Namaste mess of happiness.
There isn't actually another way I would have it.
I don't even know what's living under their beds.