No Control and Rainbows

I am the first to admit it: I’m a clothing hoarder. I’ve cycled through many sizes over the years and I can’t bring myself to toss what I might need again. When that day comes, I refuse to be ill-prepared—no matter what the scale says. 

This is a recurring motif of mine: the urge to feel prepared; to control the narrative of my life. I usually have an overstocked fridge, bursting pantry, and gas tank that rarely dips below a third. It's not about excess wealth; it’s a defense mechanism against a diabolically orchestrated Universe. If I keep the clothes, buy the extra food, and fill the tank, I can feel like “I’ve got this” and almost believe the lie.

Writing, then is my daily for surrendering that control. I approach the keyboard with no idea what my characters will do next. I may be their designer, but in my head, they are autonomous and stubborn. Then there are days when everything conspires against me sitting and writing, and my best laid plans go awry. And still, after the words are written, revised, and polished, it’s still out of my control whether someone will actually like them. 

Today offered a perfect lesson in chaos. Instead of writing, I spent the morning with my mom having tea, and the afternoon with my husband weeding and laying mulch in the garden.  By the time I finally sat to relax in the hot tub, a storm rolled in, shaking the patio cover. About face. I threw on pajamas and finally sat to write. 

Just as I found my flow, a shriek from the kitchen derailed everything. 

“Mom, Rainbow, come see!”  

When your sixteen year old wants a photoshoot with her mom, one does not say no. (How many more will there be?) And so, writing paused. Photoshoot commenced. 

Returning to these keys, I looked down at my feet. I guess, even when I have control, I still have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe I need to practice letting go a bit more— of control and of the items in my closet. 

Time keeps ticking, and while I want to get words out on the page, so too do I need to absorb my mom’s company, good tea, a pretty garden, my husband and his efforts, my daughter who is growing too quickly and still wants pictures with her mom. 

Happy Mother’s day, Mom… and to all moms and those who take on the roles of moms everywhere— Happy mother’s day to you, too. I hope the world was kind enough to provide for you a day like I had— even if it means wearing two different slippers around the house for hours before you realize it and no one says a word.