Perspective
This past weekend, my family got away. We took a little trip to Michigan to teach our children to cross-country ski.
Now, usually we follow a regular routine whenever we go on a trip of any length. First, we get an idea about where we would like to go. Then, we discuss often for weeks or months. Discussion is supplemented by intense and exhaustive research, to ensure that no fun element that could possibly enhance the trip is overlooked. Finally and most importantly I spend at least twelve hours cleaning the house and neatly packing so that in case, God forbid, we all perish in a 20-car pileup, the executors of our estate will be able to say, It’s a shame she died; she kept her dresser drawers so neat and never left milk to spoil in the fridge.
Recently, however, I’ve been distracted by this and that. As a result, I found myself on Friday with two kids home from school for the long holiday weekend, a Plain Press column due, and my father-in-law’s birthday to celebrate in the evening. Come Saturday morning, not a thing was packed, and the house was a complete mess. But we had to leave anyway; we had hotel reservations.
Well, John forgave me for forgetting to pack his socks and underwear (he’s keenly aware that, technically, I don’t have to pack for him at all), but I still feel that my having left two dirty skillets in the sink and a cup of cold tea on the kitchen counter led somehow to our having to leave a broken minivan in Ypsilanti. The trip that begins with confusion cannot but end the same way.
Having left home in chaos, we also returned that way. There have been the van repairs to manage, a second round-trip to make to Michigan, the credit card bill to consider, and of course the dishes, laundry, and general clutter that we left behind that still need seeing to.
Fortunately, I also came back with this: the mind’s photograph of my little daughter, pink-cheeked and smiling, stopping to listen to the sound made by snowflakes falling in a pine woods. An element of perfect order.