Yesterday, we found an Easter egg.
From last Easter.
In our living room.
It was still bright pink on the outside.
And on the inside... what? You didn't think we'd just toss it without taking advantage of the biological science experiment that is our housekeeping?
On the inside, a brown, sawdusty-like powder.
Not unlike a seriously thick season or two of, um, dust.
When in Rome? Sigh...
So then I got to thinking about what to write.
And believe me, I came up with plenty of self-deprecating possibilities.
I mean, c'mon. We have had a hard-boiled egg sitting just barely hidden in our living room for eight months and we didn't notice?! Maybe I should just go ahead and write the notes of apology and explanation for my daughters' future therapists' files and be done with it.
Nah. I'm the queen of filling the half-empty cup with a little rose-colored denial. So somehow I'm ready to turn this Easter egg situation into a mi casa es su casa post. (I know, it takes a true talent to wander off point like this.)
But really, here's how it works. I find an egg in my house and I figure ya'll have the odd mess at your house, too. (Can you just let me carry on this way for awhile?) And then there are the less tangible messes, the moral and emotional messes, the mucked up communications and spilled compassion. In houses everywhere.
We're in it together, friends. Eggs and all.
At least that's what Rudyard Kipling says.
1898 -- A Song of the Domnions
'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
(Read the rest here...)
I'm grateful for Poetry Friday. What about you?