Today I spent about 5 hours cleaning and organizing my kitchen. I went through about 2/3rds of all the kitchen cabinets and rearranged things so that a.) I can find them and b.) all medicines and sharp implements are out of reach of a-very-tall-three year old-who-has-learned-to-set-up-the-step-stool-all-by-himself. (Kids are resourceful, yo.)
Turning everything inside out, shaking it around, and then rearranging is actually one of life's joys. I found myself dancing around the kitchen listening to classic country, pretending I was back in Texas, and feeling more at home than I have in a long time. I have fond memories of sharing a room with Kate while growing up - and sometimes when we got these amazing energy streaks where we would just clean-and-clean-and-clean our room. We would rearrange all the furniture -moving beds and bookshelves and making it seem like we had a brand new room. It always felt fresh and renewing.
Today, I just had such a good time organizing and enjoying all the memories that are held in my kitchen. The kitchen is like the heart of the house - when the heart is good, the whole house seems good. I cleaned up the little stone plaque Aunt Marian gave us at our wedding which reads: "These things remain; faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is love." I dusted out the two (remaining!) tall candlesticks I have saved from Kate and Simon's wedding. I rediscovered the brass bell salvaged from Granny's attic - which Ben's Grandpa brought back from his tour of Vietnam. I watered my African Violet and put it more prominently in the window - it always reminds me of my Grandmother. I dusted off Nanny's kitchen witch, a kindly, crooked-faced conjurer who has protected my cooking from evil tastes for almost 10 years now. The bells which hung above my bed in college and grad school are now keeping vigil over the sink. I carefully placed the Mickey Mouse pirate mug (which Dad brought me from a school-trip to Disney World over 15 years ago) carefully on the top shelf of the cabinet. I stacked the Pyrex dishes Mom bought me back in high school - they have certainly earned their keep over the past 20 years and still have plenty of life in them.
Ben and I yearn for the Hobbit life and we delight in our half acre Shire. But on days like today, I strive to recreate my own last homely house on the edge of the Wild. On days like today, it almost feels attainable because our house, like Rivendell, thrives on long memory. We collect family stories - old and new - we savor book lore and life lore and take council together (fire dependent on the season). We sing cheerful nonsense and absorb inevitable tragedies. We plan, create, feast, rest, and breathe alongside memories. Our house isn't just a place - it's a story. It's not a castle or a fortress - it's something far more powerful and unassuming - a snug Cape Cod where we cultivate peace and hopefully shine a little light out into the Wild world.
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