Just do the thing for the time. Get the words from your head, through your fingers, and out there.
I’ve been awake for what feels like hours with all the thoughts. I’ve done the breaths and prayers and gotten out of bed to peer through the blinds at the street, checking that all cars are home and accounted for.
Lying in bed, words flood my head, press my chest, spill through my eyes. I know when I won’t return to sleep, and it’s now.
I ease out of bed and into my robe. Drinking the remaining water in my glass, I exit to the kitchen.
Last night’s late-night mess greets me, and I begin cleaning up. Only as long as it takes to heat water for my hot morning drink I tell myself, rejoicing when I open the dishwasher to dirty dishes that don’t need to be put away just yet.
I fill the empty spots with glassware, silverware, random plates. I add a detergent pack and set it to run.
I grind coffee beans, dumping used ones into the compost tub on the counter, and fill the coffeemaker with water. It’s ready to press start in a few hours.
Turning the burner under the kettle, I notice a grease-splattered surface and stovetop in need of cleaning. I resist my urge to fill the sink with soapy water, a mark of growth for my Enneagram 9 self who does all the right tasks at the wrong times.
Yes, it’s a job that needs to be done, but not now when I am supposed to be writing. I don’t have to do it early Sunday morning.
I spoon the citrus-ginger-honey mixture into a mug, adding lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, and several shakes of cayenne pepper. The kettle rattles and begins to whistle. I lift the hot handle with a kitchen towel and carry it to pour over and stir everything together.
Walking upstairs, mug in hand, I make a final stop in the laundry room to start a load of laundry that has been soaking before settling on the small couch in my tiny home office to (finally) write.
Tomorrow marks 4 months since Mom died. July brings us to the final days of before.
I still feel fragmented. I begin looking for the pieces that shattered with the news, It’s not good, and were left for me to collect sometime later. Over the course of this descent into darkness, I took notes, telling myself I would order them later, but life keeps rolling on and doesn’t wait for you to do it perfectly.
This month I told myself, I will write. I will coax words and memories and try to wed them. Thank you for your patience with me on the journey of ordering my thoughts and finding my words.