The sunlight is unlikely, striking blank spots on the wall and tangled hair clumps on the floor and my second born on the table again. He tilts his head with a toothy smile and doesn’t apologize. That light follows like shadows, attached to us— our little lives framed and exposed. Making real shadows of paper scraps and crayon pieces and odd-ends strewn across countertops, light. And my mind, it is nearly outside the reach of rays. But only nearly.

If the chairs in our dining room are pushed against the wall, it means I’ve had a go at the food scraps and broken crafts underneath the table. I’ll probably host a middle school dance someday, but for now, the chairs line the wall because my kids are entertained or sleeping or throwing things down the stairs and I have a minute to really sweep.

I used to hate sweeping. The repetitive motion and the trace dirt left behind was straw on camels backs and I was not strong about it. And it’s always. Like, if you’ve swept a room… don’t consider it done. It will need it again, now always. So, don’t even put the broom away— just strap it to your belt loops or something. Nobody wears belts anymore.

Thursday and foggy, low hanging clouds. I hear myself soft laugh, but no one is in the house and I can turn up the roots acoustic station on Spotify and laugh for real if I want. But I don’t, because I like being alone and I like quiet-ish. And I like cleaning now, too.

I keep my sanity with the repetition and liturgy and intentional pauses. A stream of constant internal chatter keeps me company; there is a thought about my 3-year-old’s wispy hair curling around her ears, a question about how long the shingles can last on our roof, and another about how to stretch the random assortment of groceries in our pantry that is all of one drawer.

Another day. I rearrange Zella’s closet, again, and turn around to see an elaborate scene set up for a doctor’s office – or is it a veterinarian? or, also is it, maybe, a musical theatre doctor for animals?

Back downstairs, I wipe down the counters and hide the clutter in recycle bins and drawers I never open. I talk back to NPR about what economists are saying about the national debt, make a mental list of vegetables versus breads we’ve eaten today, think through what bills have been paid, and intend to call a friend. I make goals and revisit a theme for this year. What day is it? I should go on a run. I need to let Margaret know we want to plant a garden. She said she already started hers, so I feel behind and I don’t know what I’m doing with this southern soil.

>>Hey, I’m gonna leave and meet up with Ben at 4. Cool?

Yep, totally cool.<<

I am 100 percent positive my face looks like I’ve been interrupted, even though no one else was talking. Because, there was that conversation and then there was this present one… which started a whole, separate and random stream of consciousness. //Yes, of course that’s fine. Will you be back for dinner? I was going to use the car to get groceries but that’s totally fine because…. yep, I can whip up a soup out of leftovers and it should be edible. Hm.. both kids are running on no naps, but um… maybe I should grab the stroller from the trunk? Should we start keeping that in the closet? No, there’s no real room in there. I should organize that front closet. There actually is a lot of room up there. How could I use that space at the top? We don’t need the stroller, I guess. Oh, Foster’s poop is smooshing out his diaper.//

What? Oh, do I want anything?<<

>>Yeah, do you want anything while I’m out?

Uh, no. Nope. No, that’s fine. Yeah, um, yeah I’m good.<<

>>Did I do something wrong?

Nope<<

I search for sunlight and it’s hitting every single crumb from the last four days under the table and how is that possible. I set the broom out as the screen door squeaks and hits the frame. I hear the tck tck tck of the second hand, keeping time like a metronome on the clock in the dining room. Why can’t I talk like a normal person with all the words I know? I know a lot of words! I love him, why didn’t I say I love him?!

I arrange a school craft situation on the kitchen table about Egyptians, her most recent obsession, as I line the chairs against the wall. “I’m really curious about the Egyptians, mom.” Cool. Let me quick reign in my sin self so I can let your curiosity do its wonder work on both of us. Also, why you so curious about Egyptians!?! Jk. This is actually perfect because now I can sweep. Foster is rolling a giant marble around, so I should have a good 5 minutes between the two of you.

But, also that conversation – why couldn’t I just filter less. Or why can’t I just explain that my brain is like lines of computer code running in opposite directions across the screen and I’m trying to read it all and talk about the rich soil along Nile River? Why is that so hard to do? Because I don’t actually know computer code, that’s probably the problem. Or is it that the computer code I described actually has that terrible beautiful English ivy weed climbing all over it?

I probably have 30 minutes left before the house is full again, before my loves get back and I get to jump inside their wonder. I want to read some pages from, “Color of Compromise” —an adult book you should also read— so I can’t explain what just happened on these keys.

Thank you for letting me let you inside my mind, interweb family. Holler back if you know the English ivy scrolling computer code brain language I’m talking about. If I ever figure it out, I’m going to make a “English ivy scrolling computer code brain language for dummies” book. You’re welcome.

**And, though this post was written 4 1/2 years ago, I had an eerily similar experience today as we left the neighborhood block party and overheard Pat inviting neighbor friends to Sabbath dinner. Because we had not completely synced up about Sabbath prep and the night’s activities, I got caught in the cobwebs of my mind’s English ivy. Now, I have a few minutes while the challah rests and the chicken roasts with the beets and potatoes… a few minutes to sing sad happy songs and ask God if my brain will ever be still.**