Today is my last day home after a welcomed break for the holiday. Four days off and I've found my old rhythm of housekeeping and homemaking. In four days organization has begun to return along with all my old enthusiasms.
It's called Being Rested. The past four nights I did not go to bed trying to fit the puzzle pieces of who has to be where and what car will take them and how it will all work around letting out dogs and making sure we all have the proper clothing clean and ready to wear.
Instead, for four glorious nights I knew in the morning would be coffee, then a quick lick around the house, and then the easy dance between hanging out laundry and writing and knitting and cooking and sewing.
The little glitches in the day that normally bring the whole opera to a screeching and tragic halt -- for instance, Dirtman being called into work early -- mean nothing more than perhaps flipping a chore or two. Suddenly words I haven't uttered in a very long time come out of my mouth: "No big deal!" Almost...cheerful.
Tomorrow the circus goes back on the road and I will begin my fabulous plate act, running from spinning plate to spinning plate, making sure they stay moving so they don't fall and break.
I can never think beyond the plates while they're spinning, though. They are useless, but urgent and, frankly, I have to be thankful for the opportunity to perform. Rent must be paid, the lights must stay on, Linguinis must be fed.
But, until Christmas, the plates are all there is.