9 Home
I’m home now.
My little people woke up early and are running around the house before the sun is shining. It’s good to be back in our little house. Our little home.
The week away has filled my cup. Filled me with energy and I’m ready to write.
I like the coffee at home. I’m sitting at the little round table in my funny little house and write words and drink coffee and set my mind in motion. There are many things I want to write. Sometimes I think I can write them all. Spending my evenings plowing though the word field harvesting all those stories.
I used to wash dishes in a large kitchen. While I loved working in the kitchen, i hated washing dishes. There were so many plates stacked high, fry pans, baking trays, tongs, and buckets of cutlery. They would fill the passage leading to my damp little wash room. Thousands of them, every night, a relentless mountain that kept coming. It frustrated me. I would tell chefs that they shouldn’t need that many pans. Complain to wait staff that the plate doesn’t look used. All in a feeble attempt to stem the flow.
One summers morning I was complaining to my dad about the plates. He sat quietly and listened as I whinged lyrical about my plight until his lateral thinking brain snapped. Dad doesn’t suffer fools. He said abruptly, sternly but kindly, “The dishes won’t ever stop. You’ll never finish them. Just focus on the next one.”
So, I shouldn’t worry about all things I want to make and just focus on the next thing.
Thanks, dad.