It is early spring, and it’s raining ferociously.
Beyond the raindrops dotting my window the crown of a cotton wood slaps in the wind. I feel crampy but I am happy to have a warm spot to curl up with this pain and a glowing light to read by. My toes are toasty under the duvet. From my cushy perch I watch the daytime storm. The raindrops cling to the window pane, then glide down whenever new ones bump them off. The window is pushed up a little and through the opening I hear the giant tree swoosh and the occasional rain spatter. I can smell the clarity and freshness the wet brings to the air outside.
Certain sights send my heart soaring, but they’re not ones you’d expect.
I like clutter. I’m not talking the “I should be on an episode of Hoarders” clutter, but the kind that is proof of a life being lived. Whenever I look around a home – whether it is mine or a dear friend’s – these messes always call out to me and fill me with warmth and joy.
Slightly sinful, like eating a piece of fine chocolate before taking my vitamins.
Or checking something off my long “To Do” list before I have actually accomplished the task. Or going grocery shopping and deciding to treat myself to a leisurely lunch before going home. Only slightly sinful. Or should I call it “luxurious”? An act of self-care, for after all, the days have been busy, far too busy, and I deserve this.
Whenever I find that I cannot understand the world as I feel I ought to – or whenever I find that I do … but wish that I didn’t, I decide that I want to escape, and always return to the same place.
Italian philosopher Umberto Eco once said, “To survive, you must tell stories.” I believe him, because every time life chooses to become overbearing, as life inordinately does, I return to the story of Neverland, and I let it nourish my soul as only a dose of agelessness and fairy dust can.