Behind

As I write this I have 1,042 unread emails in my inbox (if you are one of them I am deeply sorry). The dishes, despite being done yesterday have multiplied, covering the stove and kitchen counter. There are dead flowers on the table, toys strewn around the floor, and clutter on the stairs that never seems to be brought up. It feels as if September has gotten away from me.

Today it rained. The weatherman said we had fifteen dry days which means my garden has had fifteen days without any significant watering. I admit I’ve been avoiding it.

The weeds are tall this year, one blade of grass almost as tall as I am. I see my garden and go back inside. I feel as if I am perpetually behind.

My suitcase hasn’t been unpacked since the beginning of summer and my sweaters never made it to the attic. What’s the point of packing them away now when I’ll be wearing them again soon?

If only I could catch up, if only I had a week alone to pack, to clean, to organize my life, things would get on track again I tell myself. This is a lie. Even if I had a week without morning drop offs and long bedtime routines, without soccer and baseball, without my children constantly undoing my cleaning, I know that I would never catch up.

Has it always been this way? I ask myself. Before children I think it was more manageable but I was still always behind on certain tasks. Maybe it’s just me but maybe it’s all of us. Maybe there is just too much to do, to see, to plan. Maybe this is a constant state of being.

I make lists of things I want to accomplish each week and things do get crossed off. My children make it to their soccer and baseball games, I bring them to the library, they play outside with their friends. And despite the neglect and weeds, the dahlias are blooming. Deep shades of red and purple are mixed with peach and white. 

The dahlias are still to here remind me that there is beauty among the weeds. I still write and people are still reading my novel, talking to me about it at unexpected times. And although bedtime is long, it is only because my daughter wants to talk to me at night, wants to share her worries and dreams. So maybe I will always be behind, maybe my to-do list will never be completely crossed off. But I think I can count on the dahlias, on late night talks, on new stories that I want to write. Maybe that’s what this is really all about.