Truce

She rinses black beans and pauses to watch them glisten in the strainer. Before opening the can, she had fished the tail end of a red onion off the fridge door, found it still firm, and, twack, enjoyed the crunch of her knife cutting the crisp pulp into a satisfying dice. Oil, a splash of lemon juice, a pinch of herbs, salt, pepper, a grabbed fork, whoosh, she settles into the soft chair by the window to eat her lunch.

​She never takes calm, clear moments like this for granted—times when she gets to savor the simple wonderfulness of life. In between bites of lemony bean salad, she looks around the room at clear, dust-free surfaces. But it’s not always like this. She’s just crawled out of a busy phase. This morning, she restored order to her house. Each tasty bite now feels like celebration.

​Yesterday, every surface — tables, bureaus, and counters — overflowed with debris. Weeks ago, mail piles had begun innocently enough - an envelope here, another stack over there. Weeks later, they’d start to topple over.  House Salad, she’d quip - trying to laugh off the growing chaos - receipts, coupons, combs, pens, prescriptions, all the flotsam of daily life tossed all together.

Gradually, an obstinate blindness set in. Appointments, work, shopping, weekend jaunts - all greater concerns outweighed her need for order. She could walk on by these piles, secure in the richness of her life.  But not for long. Soon, the accusations began; she’d hear the demands. Open me. Pay me. File me. Throw me out. The once docile stacks of papers became ornery. When she’d pass by the clutter, they’d call her names. Pigpen! Slob! Shameful! The tone of derision stung.  

I’m not taking this any longer, she groused after the largest pile toppled. And, if you were there, you'd have heard the grrrrr of her grumble. She knew exactly what she had to do. Her husband had been to Costco—the hub of deliverance from all manner of ills. Later, she’d say she felt giddy as she grabbed what she needed off the shelf.

​She started in the living room and made her way to the kitchen. Ok, all the mail will go into these 13-gallon kitchen bags. This sh--! Batteries, pens, paperclips, hair ties - thank you Amaxon - this box is perfect for those. She worked quickly, carefully. Not to sort. Not to decide. But to settle. With one hand, she held the bags close to the surfaces the clutter had hidden from view, and with the other, she scooped it all away. At least for now. Twenty minutes later after she’d finished on the second floor, she walked around in the quiet. As she stands looking about on the stairs she thinks, How easy. She walks by, runs her hand along the tops of the furniture. How lovely the grain on her walnut bureau, the oak of the table she loved.

​Back on her chair,  munching the last of her lunch, the ripe mango she’d chilled competes in her mind with those chocolate chip cookies she’d stashed and wait now in the freezer. Fruit or cookies? She savors her options as she savors the absence of sound and her own special semblance of order. And as the afternoon sun heats up her window, No, she says to herself and she stands. 

It’s ice cream. 

And just a few minutes later she’s on the next block.