Oh, how I wish my table was a metaphor for my mind and spirit.
It begins the day, clear and clean, washed in the bright near-winter light from the bank of windows. As second son and I move into the morning, laptop and ipad appear, schoolbooks and pencil jar, and handwork or card making supplies for me. As the hours move toward noon, the neat piles slide into disorder, math scratch sheets cover reading books, pens hide underneath.
When lessons are done for the day, order is restored as we clear away the accumulated evidence of our time with decimal division, plate tectonics and irregular verbs. Then tiny skateboards may appear, or legos, or drawing paper to while away the afternoon. As soup and bread scents fill the house, the table is emptied and set, napkins and stainless steel, glasses and water pitcher. As the dusk outside dims, we light the candle chandelier and pull up to the table with our hunger and our stories, our roses and thorns.
Night comes, and the table is cleared a final time, wiped clean of foccacia crumbs and drips of tomato sauce. As we move to the family room at the heart of the house, I push in the chairs, turn off the lamps. The table waits in shadow and moonlight for us to lay it again with life, new like mercy each morning.
joining, at least for today,
found via The Habit of Being