It's The Swing Years tonight on NPR, which is the on-switch in my head that tells me it's time to clean house. The problem is, I'd rather use my time to write. Today, the day slid by like a balloon rocket, shooting out of my hands and I was left with nothing but this urge to have something more.
Even if I never build a rocket, I'd like to try.
I realized tonight that when the house needs cleaning and my head needs cleaning, I have choose my head, sit down at my computer and write. I've heard so many people say, "I'm a _______ who writes," but what I realized today is I'm a writer who housewifes. I don't take my dustbunnies seriously enough to spend the day searching for them, for sweeping away the corner cobwebs.
I'm content to let the dust settle one more day if it offers me a few more hours or even an extra half hour to write. I'm content to shut the door to the family/art room with its happy paintbrushes and overzealous canvases leaning in all directions. I'm content to turn on Van Morrison and open up a poem to see what it wants to say to me tonight.
I never was good at wearing a lot of hats, I find my head gets hot and it creates numerous bad hair days. So, I'll try to keep it simple, to rid myself of any label that cares more about changing the sheets than changing the world.
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