Foot Notes

My mom and dad came to visit last week and we talked systems. We brainstormed over how I could minimize the chaos and the clutter and the difficulties of getting six people launched in the morning with lunch.

The upshot of that discussion; six pairs of shoes are currently safely tucked in the shoe closet; kids have laid out their clothes for tomorrow, including mated socks! Banana bread and blueberry muffins have been made in advance of breakfast. The sink is empty, the dryer is finishing the last load and the refrigerator is stocked with the snacks and meals for the week.

It's ten-thirty p.m. I have nothing to do. I can write! Hot diggities.

Except, without the element of chaos from which to draw inspiration, I got nothing. The basement is in nominal shape. Coats are hung up. My five year old took on folding the towels and his bathroom is completely tidy. He's offered kindly to do mine. My daughter changed the sheets this weekend. My oldest did the dishes. Try as I might, there isn't a vignette to craft, a bon mot to share or a grouse I can nurse into a story. I'm stuck with the curse of a clean house and an empty mind.

Naturally, I turned to my beloved spouse who had aided in the clean up for the day by folding while watching the playoffs.
"I need your help." I started.
"Sher, I thought you were writing..."

"I can't. It's the moment every writer dreads. They look at the blank page. The blank page looks back and there is no love. Help!"

"When you can't fall asleep, giving me a rub always makes you yawn. So maybe, if you gave me a foot rub, you'd think of things to write."

"This is a con to get a rub."
"Yes it is; but it might work, it does for insomnia."

I went back to the page. The page was still dull as could be. I had the gift of time, but it seems the need to procrastinate was another source of inspiration. My husband helpfully presented his ankles for a good crunching.

The things I do for my art.