Nothing To Tell Except on Myself

Nothing.
No story.
No images.
No inclination to write.
Just determination to stay with the assignment I set for myself to write 30 posts in 30 days.
Here’s the deal.
I slept in.
I encoraged dad and son to get moving on that birthday present shopping trip for little brother.
I woke up little brother who also slept in. I took him to the couch first. He curled up on my lap. I should have taken him to the toilet first.
Our couch is dry, my pants are changed.
I reheated oatmeal for little brother. He asked when the others in his family would return. He asked where they went. Fortunately I didn’t know so could answer honestly. He didn’t ask me why they went out.
And the day went on in the usual way from there.
A busy weekend tore through our ordered home. TV trays, dirty dishes, clean laundry waiting on my bed, Pokemon cards and legos underfoot.
I’m not upset. I’m disoriented.
I grew up in a messy disorganized house. I was the only child. I cleaned before I wrote. Emptied ash trays, dumped cups of cold coffee found on end tables, made stacks of my parents’ papers, washed dishes, cleared the dining room table. Then I could think. Then I wrote.
If I was downstairs when a creative urge presented itself, I cleaned my room first. Since not much was out of order, I ‘d add another trinket to my wall (always decorating), light a candle, set the needle on Simon and Garfunkel, wait a moment in that quiet, then begin shedding my thoughts, letting them land on loose leaf and spiral bound pages. I still have most of my recordings from back then.
In between pages I memorized every word of every song my dearly loved Simon and Garfunkel ever produced. Corn Flakes and war, silence and Hallelujah mingled in my subconscious. I didn’t unravel meaning. I listened, lulled by the “soft sound of a pick pulling single strings of an acoustic guitar,” entranced by perfect poems in harmony so delicious I nearly always closed my eyes and sang along.
I am an only child. I spent the first years of adulthood living alone. I am accustomed to total control (perceived) over my domestic surroundings.
I’m married now and we have two children. I love my family dearly. I’m finding balance between cleanliness and order and living in harmony with my family. I can no longer wait for perfect outer serenity in order to write.
One might think, after 11 years of wedded happiness, I’d have grown out of this inclination to wait for order to create. I’m stubborn.
Day 21 (of 30) written. Now I’m going home to clean house.