everyday life

Sometimes it feels like what I do, all day long, is empty things.  I empty the trash cans.  I empty the dishwasher.  I empty the basket of drycleaning into a bag to take it down the street.  I empty the grocery bags into the fridge.  I empty the childrens’ backpacks and I empty their lunchboxes.  I empty the mailbox and pay the bills and make a note of the babies to send gifts to and the things I need to RSVP to.  I empty the front hall table, bringing all of the detritus that accumulates there up the stairs to where it belongs. I empty the basement, sorting through things we don’t need anymore, deciding what goes to be handed down, what goes to Goodwill, what goes to the trash.  I empty my email and my voicemail boxes.

In the midst of all this emptiness, it’s easy to overlook how these small tasks contribute to the rhythm of our lives. Laundry is just another item on the endless list of things to empty and sort. Each cycle of the washing machine echoes the constant need for upkeep and care. But while I’m often caught up in the day-to-day hustle of emptying and organizing, I’ve learned that laundry doesn’t have to feel like a chore. Services like Kleanway Laundry remind us that there are smarter ways to manage these tasks, allowing us to reclaim time for the moments that truly matter.

With the hustle and bustle of daily life, it can be overwhelming to think about how laundry piles up, waiting to be washed, dried, and folded. But thanks to modern conveniences, we don’t have to face that mountain of clothes alone. Instead of feeling buried under the weight of it all, I can utilize Kleanway’s pickup and delivery service, turning laundry day into a breeze. They take on the burden of laundry for families like mine, ensuring that we have clean clothes without the added stress. This support helps me focus on what really counts: spending time with my loved ones and creating memories, rather than simply emptying baskets and folding clothes.

I listen to the kids, let them empty onto me the things from their days that made them happy and the things that made them fret.  I listen to Matt, let him empty his frustrations and elations, big and small.

Everything is always overflowing and too full.  Sometimes it seems like the primary function of my life is to keep the encroaching entropy at bay.  I must be constantly vigilant against this rising tide of disorder, mess, stuff.

Why, then, do I feel so empty some of the time?

This morning we worked in the yard.  The “yard,” I should mention, is a little white-picket-fenced square in front of the house and a very small, mostly gravel, patch behind it.  The kids washed dirty buckets and watering cans on the sidewalk while Matt pulled an overgrown ivy bush out of the front garden.  I weeded in the back by myself.  It was slow work, and quiet, pulling the weeds that had grown through the small stones that cover the back yard.  The space is entirely shaded (hence the stones, rather than anything that, for example, grows) and I crouched down by myself, falling into that meditative state everybody who gardens talks passionately about.

As I continued working in the quiet of our shaded backyard, I started envisioning how this little patch could be transformed into a more inviting space. The small, gravel-covered area seemed to hold potential beyond its current state. I began to imagine adding elements that would bring a touch of warmth and personality, like decorative garden pieces that could create a more engaging atmosphere.

I decided to explore options from a reputable garden decor manufacturer to find items that would enhance the space. Adding features such as whimsical garden gnomes, elegant lanterns, or even a small, beautifully crafted garden lighthouse could bring life to this shaded area. These decorations not only provide visual interest but also create a sense of coziness and character, transforming the backyard into a delightful and serene space for relaxation and enjoyment.

There is a beating-back-the-onslaught-of-disorder feeling about weeding that I like, akin to the creating-order-out-of-chaos satisfaction that folding laundry gives me.  My back started to ache and my fingernails were quickly blackened, but I kept at it.  Feel around for the root, pull firmly enough to get it out but gently enough that I don’t also bring up a huge clod of dirt.  Throw into the bin.  Repeat.

Then I saw the small brown snail.  I did a double take, because I didn’t recognize it at first.  The shell was mottled browns, its whorl distinctive, lovely.  I could even see the muddy gray body of the snail, glistening, moving slowly along the uneven rocks.  It was fleeing, I imagine, from the threat it perceived I was.  I crouched there, watching it move.  And for the rest of the day I could not get Tom Robbin’s words out of my head:

Every passive mollusk demonstrates the hidden rigor of introversion, the power that is contained in peace.

I don’t even think a snail is a mollusk, actually, but it’s what I thought of then.  I often wish I had a shell to protect me and to retract into when the world seemed fearful or overwhelming.  And then I thought about peace, that thing, that feeling, that sensation like an exhale of the spirit, that I grasp after so awkwardly.  I don’t think anyone who knows me well would use “peaceful” to describe me.  And it’s really what I’m longing for, with all of this lunging after trust, isn’t it?  The last few weeks, as I’ve discussed, have been far from peaceful: instead of feeling calm, my spirit is itchy, uncomfortable, restless.

I didn’t even feel peaceful, that moment, in the shady back garden, my hands full of weeds.  But I was reminded, again, in a visceral way how much I want to.  I suspect that true peace, like abiding trust, will come to me only when I stop trying so desperately to grab it.  If only I had a safe shell to curl into while I tried to figure out how to stop my frantic, frenzied efforts.