I rolled out the rug tonight. Which is a miracle that doesn’t show its work in such a simple sentence:
I put food and dishes in cupboards– made an attempt, a best guess at what Future Rose wants her kitchen flow to feel like. It didn’t feel like making a home, it felt like maybe pushing pegs in holes and not really being able to tell if they fit.
But the task was just that: pegs in holes. Clear the board a little. Make some room to work. It’ll end up being like those impossible-to-put down slider puzzles: you have to move Q to move M to get to X so you can free up J just to get to square one.
As ever, a little work went a long way: the house feels hopeful. It feels like rooms in which I could live and be at home. Where I can read more bedtime stories and cook more meals, and where I can stop what I’m doing and go lie down on the rug with a dear friend until I am consciously aware of what a choice it is to practice being happy.
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