A Blank Canvas


That's what this was when we bought it... a blank canvas.... a canvas for which I had many plans.

It matches a toybox... another blank canvas... which also remains blank.

We had a crib... which was never used. We bought the bed... which was eventually used.

But the canvas remained blank.

And as I struggled to maneuver it out of the room and down the hall over the weekend, I was saddened not by the exit of the bed... but by the fact that as it left the house... it was still... a blank canvas.

The basement is littered with (functional) blank canvases... chairs... blackboards... tables... some primed already... waiting... some not even primed.



... maybe it was a time saver?

There is a terrible weight in obligation, but a marvelous lightness in possibility. The difference between these two is often merely a matter of perspective.

Don't let the fact that your life, your true masterwork, is full of the domestic busy-ness of family matters delude you into thinking you are somehow lacking in a virtue.

Think of the awfulness of knowing that you choose redecorating furniture over resting and having enough energy to be a patient mama, or over storytime, or over slow, toddler-paced walks. Think of the guilt that would mean.


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