I worked in my kitchen one recent Saturday night, my pale yellow work dress flitting about my calves as I rearranged glass jars in my pantry and swept spilled flour and whatnot into the dustpan. Starting such a project this late in the evening was foolish and I knew it; it would take well past midnight to reorganize my pantry and bring my kitchen back to order. But the thrill of a stretch of quiet time to myself to complete a project trumped reasonability, and happily I arranged.
Sometime later, while standing at the counter dumping brown sugar into a glass jar mulling over my latest book read, something curious happened. I can’t explain exactly what it was, except that it was a feeling to set down my jar, be still, and listen. I stopped immediately, leaned forward against the counter, and bowed my head.
Within moments, I received a divine string of personalized epiphanies so simple that they would astound and reorient me instantly. Tangled life-long questions relaxed and unrolled with ease. Small but powerful habits impeding my entire life were made clear to me, complete with a new single sentence of instruction a child would understand.
I noticed my broom resting in the corner and imagined it dancing, sweeping my soul of old debris to make space for the kind of wisdom that settles in the bones like steady light. Instantly I found myself standing courageous in the new country, sashaying through the countryside, my pale yellow dress flapping in the new wind, ready. Ready.
A curtsey to my pantry, currently lined in neat rows of clear and brimming jars, for now.