Widgets Magazine

A Messy Thankfulness

Sometime, being thankful is not a tidy act.
Perhaps it is the tryptophan coursing through my veins or the stupor of a food coma subduing -*the Id in waves. Combined with the delicious red wine smoothing out the rough edges, it is like a Jim Carroll holiday nod. All of the reverie of thankfulness and overindulgence has brought on a rare feeling of wistfulness.
To speak of such intimacies on a specific day can smack of a ,AeoHallmark Holiday,Aeo, something concocted to inspire the purchases of sentimental cards and professions in schlocky rhyme.
Yet, it is necessary – a forced meditation on the the importance of those around you. It is especially revelatory when one works under the impression that they are ,Aeothankful everyday,Aeo. -*Familiarity breeds contempt at times and saying I love you every day can unintentionally become merely reflexive.
Messy is a lesson well taught. It may come as a surprise to some, or perhaps not, that I can be a bit uptight. In particular there is an insistence to having things in a ,Aeoproper order,Aeo -*and that the ,Aeosock on the floor,Aeo cannot be left unattended to.
My sister suffers a far worse version where things must be in pinpoint neatness. The short synopsis is that we grew up moving at least five times into houses that were gutted and rebuilt as we lived in them. The result was that of often sharing a room with my sister and the constant clutter of building materials and spackle dust, everywhere. Both of us responded to the tumult with an attempt to force order on what we could control.
The need for control followed into adulthood, often causing some irrational conflict when none needed to be. The internal need to have my space in order and ,Aeoright,Aeo overwhelmed the need to create, move on. So neat and precise were my folded clothes, when I first started dating my now wife she was convinced that I had a stint in the military.
My wife has endured my freakish outbursts while, sometimes not so, patiently slowing me down to see beyond the burden of unfolded clean laundry or the papers and mail not organized just so. She has taught me that lovin is more important than a neat bed, that a solid conversation is far more productive than organizing the bookshelf in both size order and subject relevance. -*
My sons have taught me that engaged play is more important than getting all the parts back in the box, and that the fun of the game is a higher calling than having all the proper pieces.

While the near claustrophobia like reaction to a messy space is not gone, I can create and compartmentalize – scheduling what will be done when. -*Life lessons given of caring and tolerance.
I am thankful for their unconditional love. -*
Image used under Creative Common Licence, Copyright Chris Dlugosz-*

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