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Some people choose the bathroom floor. I choose the kitchen floor. It’s a middle earth of sorts. I can hear the activity in the living room, and hide in solitude all at the same time. This is often where I find myself reading, writing, or just sitting drinking. The kitchen really is the soul of the home.

This evening, I sit once again in post snow day bliss. On the kitchen floor, enjoying a late afternoon coffee, I think and try to process these exhausting few weeks since the election. Everyday I’m bombarded, yes by my choosing, with the news of the president’s actions and the controversies that follow. I’m deeply concerned as an American.  All the while, my personal life remains busy. Children, work, marriage, friendships, and my internal dialogue pull me in every imaginable direction. I attempt make sense of the weight, trying to sort through it all like my equally intimidating pile of laundry.

I sit quietly. Breathe. “Begin,” a voice whispers. Begin what? The new chapter of a book, my career, my life?  Too much, too big.  I think smaller. Begin where I am, with the word. All I have in this moment are the words flying through my mind. “Find the words that will spur action. Find the words that will excite and captivate,” my inner critic rages. The volume overwhelms me . It all feels too deep, like a surreal ocean with new, unimaginable creatures and characters within an alternate universe complete with its own set of “alternative facts.”

I sense that we are the fringe of a new time. How beneficial or detrimental has yet to be confirmed. As most beginnings, it is bewildering. Recognizing the vast capacity of its potential effects is a start. Ignorance has brought us here. Hopefully, intelligence and empathy will rescue us. I haven’t figured out the recipe to healing, or success. I don’t yet have a formed argument or the necessary corresponding solution. Likewise, there is no cure for my own purposes.  Only rambling, blurry thoughts and emotions circle around the center that holds the golden box of answers.

Today, I haven’t discovered the answers, or written a profound piece that will inspire generations. I present only my internal dialogue that may or may not have entertained the reader. This evening, in the safety of my kitchen, I reflect on it all. I sit watching the tie dyed colors of my personal micro vs macrocosm mix and mingle, entertaining me just enough to remain on the kitchen floor. Yet, with the simple act of discussion through writing, I find a morsel of peace.  I put the words down.  I wrote, no matter how poor or eloquent. The kitchen truly is the soul of the home that has fed mine.

 

*Photo credit: Little Posy featuring:  Present Over Perfect by Shauna Neiguist.

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