It doesn’t matter, but it does: folded clothes on shelves instead of heaps on the floor and the hamper. The rug unrolled, the drawers filled, the bed frame partially assembled and ready for tomorrow.
It’s a mess, such a mess. Not a disaster, not a calamity, not a desperation, but it’s not neat or tidy or organized or finished.
“Diré, diré,” “Slowly, slowly,” my Hindi teacher would say, aware of my impatience and longing for fluency and full expression.
Someday I’ll look up from all these small and endless tasks and find that, mostly, everything is as it should be. That the feeling I’m leaning into like a sail into the wind is no longer on the horizon but Here and Now.
I don’t love it, but I wouldn’t skip it or wish for someone else to do it for me. And it’s a steady kind of delight to catch sight of me keeping myself company, doing chores, bringing a little order and alignment and beauty to this life we are living together.