below is my favorite poem at the moment written by the talented louise erdrich. i discovered it this summer and it feels as if it was written just for me. between re-reading this poem and spending time with betsy (the mother of the adorable elias below) i am beginning to believe that even a messy person like me could be a
pretty good mom someday. that maybe being clean and tidy isn't as
important as i sometimes think it is. betsy's farmhouse has the perfect balance of open white space with scattered piles of art and science projects, colorful clothes, classic books and treasures found at the beach. her eclectic and easy going parenting style is inspiring
to me. it reassures me that being a little messy is ok and that kids probably don't need as much order as we think they do. i often think that a mess is much more photogenic than a perfect scene,
and that our piles and unmade beds can tell quite an interesting story.
(all on their own)

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.

Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.

Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.

Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.

Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

-louise erdrich