The kids are at school, it's absolutely silent and I'm painting the kitchen, something that was left half done (or half undone depending on how you look at it) six years ago when Sean and I moved into our house. I've felt guilty about his every time I walk into the kitchen. That's a big pile of guilt. But I would have felt more guilty if I had painted it. That would have meant I was doing something else with my free time than what I really needed to be doing: writing.
Artists often talk about how cleaning is such a distraction, for me, it's the opposite. I successfully close out dirty laundry, half painted walls, even dirty kids with half painted hair, I mean tangled hair.
Of course, I still feel guilty, I simply shut it out because it turns out that writing is a distraction from cleaning. Maybe I'd do anything to avoid it. Maybe. But the question remains, what have I to show for all my ignoring? It turns out I wrote a book. Now that's as beautiful as paint on the wall, or folded laundry, or kids with brushed hair.
So as I pause from this book, I get to paint. I have to do it quickly because another book is churning up inside, and pretty soon I won't be painting, or folding, or brushing, or doing anything else around the house expect writing.
