I am a negligible, and rather negligent, housekeeper. I have no qualms about admitting this; I used to be more dedicated to cleanliness but now I've morphed into an absent-minded writer. I'm kind of like Pig Pen of "Peanuts" fame, churning up puffs of dirt as I wander through the house carrying a mug half-full of hot lemon water. Thinking about stories, not dust bunnies.
It's always a question of priorities and deadlines now. When nine o'clock comes, I head upstairs to my office, not to the closet to haul out the vacuum. When four o'clock arrives, I head out the door for a mind-clearing walk with the dog, not the kitchen to tidy up the day's dishes.
Because of this, sunny days drive me crazy. It makes me wonder why we have such big windows. The sunshine lands on cabinet tops and picture frames and reveals the layer of dust that has gathered since I last wielded my dusting glove. This morning, the low angle of the almost-winter sun slanted across the countertop in the kitchen and revealed the crumbs and salt shakes left behind by my husband's evening snacks.
So it's nice to discover remnants of a hard-working life left on a screen that are actually worth saving, worth photographing, worth admitting still exist. No bird was harmed in the creation of this portrait. An angel among us. Delivering a message? I take it as a sign to keep writing and not worry about washing windows.
Which reminds me, I washed the bed sheets this morning and really should try and get them dried and back on the mattress before bedtime.
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