To Remember When Life Is (So) Messy

The best things in life are messy.

Real food.

It fills your sink with dishes: pots encrusted with stuck-on cheese, ramekins covered in various sauces. It covers your stovetop with oil and your table with crumbs. It fills your trash with rinds and trimmings and the green beans that didn’t make the cut. But if you want a meal dripping with delicious fats and fresh produce that bursts in your mouth – you must accept the mess.

Real fireplaces.

They cover your hearth (and floor) with kindling and bark and soot. They produce heaps of ash. Gas fireplaces are infinitely cleaner, with flames that never pop and logs that never burn up. But if you want the smell and the crackle and the embers burning low – you must accept the mess.

Entertaining friends is messy.
Starting a business is messy.
Telling the truth is messy.

Marriage is messy.  For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health is really freaking messy.

Kids. God, have mercy. Kids are messy. Diapers and self-feeding and stomach viruses and upturned toy bins and potty training and fights and scraped knees and one thousand sippy cups melting in the back of your van is messy. 

Hurts you can’t heal are messy. Crying during television commercials and on your way to work because every cell in your body is aching for that child - as if your insides would claw their way out to keep her safe and warm and loved.

Love is the messiest of all.

There is a Proverb that says, “Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean, but abundant crops come by the strength of an ox.”

“Here is the annoying truth: we can have a clean stable or an abundant harvest, but not both.”

Life is messy. It’s messy because it’s full. 

I have dishes, laundry, spots on my carpet, and I’m in a hurry a lot of the time…

     …because I have friends, and family, and a job I love, and three treasures that call me mom.

Please do not imagine that because I write this I am accepting of the mess. I am not. I am possibly the least Zen person I know. I handle stress by ignoring calls/texts/emails and forcing my kids to clean things. That behavior is, obviously, an attempt to reduce the noise of my outside world in hopes of finding peace on the inside. It's a real shame it doesn't work that way.

Here is what I need to remember when I begin to resent the mess:

I would choose the mess one thousand times. I’ll keep choosing the mess, forever, because with the mess comes abundance. With the dishes comes a Bolognese so rich and warm it has healing properties. With the laundry comes the love – the love that cracks your whole world right down the middle and fills it with light. With my mess comes Madeline’s spirit, Sam’s dimple, and Henry’s cheeks.

The goal of my life is not to arrive at the end of it as neatly as possible. The goal of my life is to love well. To be honest, humble, and to love people so sincerely that it shocks them.

Here’s to learning to love the mess because of what it brings into my life: all the best things. 

The True Story of Miles Davis

Hello, dear friends. There is a new love in my life, and as such, a formal introduction is in order. 

Meet Miles Davis. 

He is fluffy.

He is curious.

He is regal.

He has resting bitch face (see above).

Here’s the story:

Miles had been in the shelter since last November and was, in the words of the volunteers, “shutting down.” When I went to visit, they told me he probably wouldn’t come out of his cubby, and that he might swat at me if I tried to pet him.  He did.

As a child, I adopted a cat that was similarly fearful in the shelter. He yowled and cried and wouldn’t come out from underneath the chairs. Within 24 hours of being home, he was lounging on the beds like he owned the place. Of all the pets I've ever owned, he was far and away the most loving.

So last Tuesday I sat a respectful distance from Miles for a while, and tried to level with myself. I said, “Kate, cats have personalities. There is no guarantee that Miles will warm up. He might be a grumpy, crotchety old cat forever. Are you willing to take care of him, even if he doesn’t snuggle you?”

The answer was “No.”

I got him anyway.

I don’t know. I just had a feeling about him.  (#INFJprobs)

When I got home, I walked up to my room, opened his carrier, and sat down on my bed to wait.

Not more than six minutes later, his little black face peeked up over the top of the bed.  He jumped up into my lap, and started to purr.

And that is the beautiful, unadulterated truth.

I emailed the SPCA somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 pictures - of Miles, the cranky cat that refused to come out of his cubby, snuggling and purring like he'd lived here all along. Miles Davis is evidence that home matters. Home can heal.  

Miles is 8 years old, which is middle-aged for a cat. If he were a man he would have amazing salt-and-pepper hair. He is wonderfully calm. Not meddlesome, no drama. He is affectionate and grateful, and has a jazzy, raspy little meow. 

And that is the story of Miles Davis.

Also, look at his tail.  (!!!)

On Loving People Who Are Hot Messes

Today, shortly after Henry collapsed on the floor in a fit of rage/despair because I put his French toast on the wrong plate, I smiled at him and said:

“I know what this is. I have seen this before. THIS is the Terrible 2’s.”

I said,

“Henry, you are going to make it. You cannot tantrum loud enough to phase me because I know from whence this comes. Chances are you’re going to come through this at least relatively well-adjusted.”

I said, out loud:

“I am not afraid of your tantrum. You are impossibly loved even when you are a raging, despairing, irrational, hot mess. Bring it on, man.”

YOU GUYS.  Every grown person needs someone to tell them this. “I am not afraid of your tantrum. You cannot tantrum loud enough to scare me away. I love you when you are a raging, despairing, irrational hot mess."

Having kids helps me to love grown ups better. When someone is difficult to love, look for “whence it comes.” 

And do you know what I just love about God? That He is big enough to handle my rage. That I cannot be irrational enough to phase Him. God is like, "I know what this is. I've seen this before. THIS is your Terrible Human Condition. Bring it on, man. Let me show you what immovable, unyielding, patient, forever-love looks like. Just rage 'til you're tired, and when you look up, you'll find me right here." God's love is bigger than my irrationality, and every time I look up, I see that I've been loved all along. 

Err On The Side Of Kindness

I've always revered people who are good on the fly. The ability to form thoughts – much less words - on the spot seems like a super power to me.

As an introvert, I need time to know what I think about things. Introverts are my people, and my people are really good 36 hours after an argument. Or after the brainstorming session is over. Or after the handsome man leaves the room. We are great at discussing all of the brilliant things we did not say. This is where I excel as a person.

In my twenties, I supplemented my lack of natural ability to talk to humans by observing, almost scientifically, good conversationalists. I noted the questions they asked to forward conversation, the phrases they used and reused, the jokes they made.

I kept a sort of file cabinet in my mind. And whenever a prolonged silence bade me to speak, I would pull out a file.  I also read a lot of classic literature - not simply because I enjoyed it (which I did), but because it was reference material. I wanted to understand every Shakespearean and Biblical allusion, and be able to drop a few well-placed ones myself.

I thought that wit, humor, and intelligence reigned supreme in conversation. Even now, not much delights me more than a good pun.

 Not much…except kindness.

“As I got older, I began to feel regret – a real sense of loss – over the times I could have been really kind, but chose to be really witty instead. ”

I am coming to understand, slowly, that being smart might help me; but being kind helps the person across the table.

I think that we miss opportunities to be kind when we try too hard to be smart, or funny, or adored. And isn’t that a shame? Missing opportunities to be kind?

Listen: I still adore wit and silliness. Portmanteaus (portmanteaux?) are the way to my heart (along, of course, with kittens). And as Anne Lamott says, laughter is carbonated holiness.

But when people walk away from an interaction with me, I care less and less whether they think I’m smart. I care deeply that they feel they matter.

To be honest, I want it all. But when there arises an instance in which I can’t be both witty and kind, I always want to err on the side of kind. 

Love With Food

My precious, kindred-spirit college friend came for brunch this morning. 

By “came for brunch” I obviously mean that she brought brunch.  Our conversation went something like this:

Me:  Wow, what is all of this?

Aliesha: Well, these are homemade blueberry scones.  *Lifts out three more containers.*  And a quiche with red peppers and onions, zucchini muffins, and fresh berries.

Me: Is this bacon?

Aliesha: Yes. And it’s glazed with brown sugar and cayenne pepper.

Me: Is that cranberry and orange juice?

Aliesha: Mmhmm, and pineapple. It just needs…

*pours in a bottle of San Pellegrino.*

Me: This iced coffee is delicious. What’s in it?

Aliesha: Sweetened condensed milk.

I should mention that she is sixteen weeks pregnant and was also (inexplicably) wearing both makeup and clothes that had buttons and matched.

The longer I live, the more I come to understand why, in every culture, from the beginning of time, people demonstrate love with food.  Food for peace offerings. Food for “welcome!” Food for “thank you.” Food for grieving families. Food for new babies. Food for celebrations. Food for getting-to-know-you. Food for community, literal breaking of bread.

Good things happen around the table. This morning, I am so thankful for friends that give love with food.