Our parents teach us to clean up after ourselves; to put our shoes back in the shoe basket, to organize our things. So I always kind of thought it was my duty to keep life from getting too messy. Keep moments in moment baskets and clean up after days that leave floors covered in flour and flurries and flowers.
The problem is life doesn't necessarily come with baskets or enough Container Stores to keep our mess from showing. And what happens when that very mess peeks through?
I don't really like messes. I have drawn a firm differentiation between chaos that is organized and disorganized. Chaos is a language I understand. Like muffin recipes and chord progressions. But mess is an extreme that I shy away from. It's the grey flecks between the black and white when, maybe, I just want something concrete. And, granted, concrete in its natural form dries grey. But that's merely a flaw in the natural order of things.
But maybe flaws don't have to be synonymous with mess. Age is teaching me the comfortability of setting up camp amidst the grey. The last year has made me painfully aware of how infallible we all are. It's much harder to consider yourself outside of the flaws when they're at eye-level. When they belong to you.
And maybe I'm acknowledging ownership for a few more containers than need be. Maybe this mess wasn't made by my hands alone but fingerprints aren't all-telling. I only know it's time to make amends with the dirt on my hands. Then find storage space enough to put the mess away.
For a tomorrow that's a little less messy.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.