I constantly am in the process of moving things. I rearrange furniture, rehang pictures and rehash instances. My plants, if not doing well in the east are moved to the west. Their protest is short-lived as some die and some thrive. As a gardener, I walk the yard with heavy-duty clippers, short enough to carry in the pocket of my camp shorts, and an odd-shaped knife that doubles as a trowel. I can fill a wheel barrel in less than 10 minutes pulling and snapping, clipping and digging.
In summer, the extended yard is my canvas. Off season, it’s the house. Albeit one forbidden room, my husband’s office. Bookcases are stuffed; file cabinets filled beyond opening point,. In the small, “insignificant space” as he calls it, papers stack in folders, atop desks, in bins and beyond. He is a king of paperwork and can easily put his hand on any issue he has worked, forbidding me entry into this sacred domain.
In earlier days of our marriage, I would aid his addiction and spend hours sifting through, refining down and rearranging the mess to accommodate my sense of orderliness. His anger was short-lived as was the improvement and through the years, I have learned to let go. My threatening, my cajoling, my promises of moon-lit sex on a sun-kissed beach have been temporarily met with token efforts at downsizing, and I will use them no more. I have simply ordered a door.
A wonderful peek into marriage. Well-written and both fun and wise!
Thanks Susan – S.