the significance of white dishes

There are some strangely random things in life that make me happy. They put me at peace. White dishes are one of those things.

My life is the textbook definition of chaos, as is likely the case with most families who have young children. It is a chaos I love. A season that will change and flux as time moves on. A need to embrace it while it is here.

For a seriously type-A personality who organizes and purges closets, toys and paperwork for pleasure, chaos rubs me in the wrong ways.

My mind is a jumble of unfinished thoughts and constant interruptions.

My floor is speckled with crumbs and bits of leftovers that the dog refused to partake in (read: clean up for me).

My fridge and walls are an ever-changing menagerie of colorful pictures and vivid imaginations in print.

My bedtime reading often falls to my chest and the book mark rests aside me when I doze off-mid sentence.

My time I set aside to write often does not jive with where my thoughts are and whether I am ready to string the words together.

My tears are plenty and my doubts as a capable parent to raise good, honest, contributing humans are true.

My laughter and joy is riotous and exuberant. Abundant and overflowing.

Where there is chaos, I will find a bit of order. A routine I can rely on, even if it is loosely elastic.

Where there are colorful dishes that mismatch, I will bring simplicity.

These very dishes are a beacon of order in this beautifully jumbled life.

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