When I was a babysitter ,or nanny, without fail, my very favorite time of day was the, dinner, shower, homework, folding laundry on the kitchen island, time of day. I finished the round trip taxi service trips that led - to and fro - from dance to science club to theater practice, and then back, again. And, then, we all would gather in the kitchen, and fold the laundry, the laundry I tried to wash and fold between classes, while I cooked some form of dinner and all of these efforts, both the kids and mine, ended in the kitchen, where, we just chatted and laughed. We folded and cleaned and checked homework and packed lunches, but mostly we chatted and laughed.
I chase this time of day. This dinner time with the gaggles of kids just dying to tell me her or his story. This time of day when all is right with the world. When the soup is simmering and the local news is on and the kids are asking questions about math and literature. I light up about the literature. And I tell them all about, Much Ado About Nothing. And, we continue to fold laundry, on the island, and pass the vegetables and assure each other, the brocoli is really that good. I feel like all is right with the world. This time of day is magic. This time of day is near the end, but not quite there. That last few bits of the day that are the very best. The last few bits that mean the very most.
Look. I mess up a lot. I mean, a lot. I cry a lot, too. I mean, a lot. Especially, in the last few weeks. And to try to combat these, so called weaknessess, I decided to create my own boot camp. A camp where I must show up at five o’clock in the morning or all was lost. And when my phone alarm rings, I sit up and get up and face this day. Even if I don’t want to.
But, I get up, and I do it. Even when I don’t want to. Even, when it is much later than I hoped. I know I must start somewhere. So I start here. Whenever I get up, and I assure myself, this time is okay.
When I was twenty one, I had the rug pulled out of under me and I haven’t been able to find it again. I chased this rug. The rug is gone.
I learned I must weave a new rug. And, I don’t want to. I don’t want to weave the rug. I don't want to be a rug weaver. I don’t want to have to help weave the damn rug.
This new rug is jagged and messy and without a circular, perfectly round, ending. I, just can not put it on the floor for display.
So, I continue to weave. Even when I don’t want to.
I tried, for the last several weeks, just to create a dinner time in my small, little home with just my dog. I folded laundry, while the oven pre-heated, and I turned on Ellen to hear the familiar chatter. I created, dinner time. Or, my very best version of dinner time.
I don’t know much about anything. But, I do know, we live for moments. We live for the feelings we once had or think we should have. The feelings. The feelings that make us feel alive.
Like dinner time with all the girls and boys and their chatter. A time I call, Dinner Time. I will never stop chasing this moment, this time. Dinner Time.
This time, when everything is okay, was okay.
When, for a few minutes, all is right in the world.
I want to create this time over and over and over, again. The chance to begin and create and love and begin and create and love again, and again, again, and again. And again.
No boundries. No limitations. Just dinner time followed by bed time, with the anticipation of getting up and doing it all again. And, meet up, at the kitchen island, and fold some laundry and chat about the day, with the anticipation of doing it all over again, tomorrow.
Dinner time, with the kids, or the dog, or Ellen, or just me, easily, my very favorite time of day. Easily.
This is love. The smallest moments. Getting to experience all of it...especially Dinner Time.