A MESS, ALMOST ALWAYS for Jozef Every morning, I drink my coffee on the worn brocade couch sitting opposite a chessboard on the table, pieces in disarray— kings and queens collapsed, the royal guarded cowering in clumps at the corners, and pawns, pawns everywhere, scattered in all directions. Their places are marked by crop circles in a fine layer of dust. Every morning, I rise to meet the mess and must decide whether to set the board right. If I return the pieces to their places, they will get knocked over again: my dog will kneecap the cavalry as she runs past the coffee table with a blue rubber sticker in her mouth, or my husband will bump into it and bruise his shins in his hurry out the door, or I will smoke some weed and kick my feet up, toppling the king like it’s checkmate. Every morning, I consider returning the board to its box—the only way to keep the pieces from getting knocked over is to put them away. But life is full of messes anyway; at least this mess contains the potential of a game. The pieces will fall, again, and I will have to decide, again, whether to set them upright or leave them in disarray. If this is how my life will be measured—not in minutes or hours or days, but in the space between collapses— then I will always choose the chance to play.
Recently, I started reading and writing my way through
’s The Book of Alchemy. One of the prompts was to sit in silence, in stillness, doing nothing for five minutes. Afterward, I was supposed to write what I thought about.
I thought about Marmalade: more specifically, I wondered (or worried?) whether she gets bored.
Marmalade spends much of her time sleeping. Dogs her age need an average of twelve to fourteen hours of sleep a day. As I was sitting, doing nothing—for the first time in who knows how long, I really couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually done nothing (intentionally) for five straight minutes—she was curled up next to me, snoozing. I knew that as soon as I got up, she would, too. She’s a “velcro dog,” always preferring to be by someone’s side: me, Jozef, our housemate Z, our friends when they’re over for dinner or craft club. Marmie spends a lot of time napping, yes, but she will always choose to follow someone over staying cozy. Does she like those interruptions? Do we give her a break from boredom when we leave the room? Or does she like her quiet, wish she could spend more time lounging instead of chasing us all over the place? I wish I could ask her. Regardless, I know she’s generally happy. She’s cozy, safe, loved—she gets walks and cuddles and so many toys.
Then I noticed the chessboard. Its pieces were all over the coffee table from one of Marmalade’s sprints through the house. And for the first time in months, I felt the call to write a poem.
I don’t know where that call comes from, or if call is even the right word. But I’ve never really had a consistent writing practice for my poetry—I just feel a poem (or more accurately, a line or two of a poem) and put it on paper. Each one goes through many rounds of revisions; I’m not even sure if this one is “complete.” But I wanted to share it today because I was struck by the synergy between Jozef’s thoughts and mine. His most recent piece for our newsletter also delved into a still life from our home—a mess and the beauty of it. His writing gave me the title for my poem.
for the love of mess
The kitchen is a mess, warmly lit by globe lights decorating the window behind the sink along with several tiny disco balls, a pennant garland, and a sprouted onion in a jam jar. Old salsa jars filled with water need to be washed and fizzy water cans need to be drained before recycling, but for now they are sitting next to the sink with Emory’s purple r…
Jo and I have, over the course of our friendship, partnership, and marriage, developed a rich familect. Even our filler phrases are shared now; a friend will say something and we’ll both respond the exact same way: so true or literally or for sure. Then one of us (or both of us!) will say, “We spend too much time together.” But I don’t think either of us really thinks that—there’s no one I’d rather spend time with.
So, in the spirit of our not-so-subtle merging, I thought it worth sharing my thoughts on the messes of our lives in conversation with his.
The chessboard, the pieces everywhere—to me, it feels like an apt metaphor for all the messes in my life: personal, relational, societal, global. The world is full of messes, good and bad. There’s so much beauty in the good messes, so much love. Too often, we focus on the bad messes, which are truly the exact opposite—full of horror and hate. Maybe we’re just messy people, but it makes me happy to think that Jozef and I are both thinking about ways to celebrate and cherish the good messes in our lives.