A shantytown is thriving in my home. Boxes, chairs, and blankets make up the structure of the shelter. Stuffed animals, toys, and wrapping paper roll swords crowd haphazardly inside. Dry cereal litters the floor, the remnants of snack time for the orphaned kittens or the knights who live there. I’ve forgotten exactly who lives there now.
It is an eyesore. It’s falling over. It drives me nuts. But, I have decided to bless my home’s little shantytown because of two things. My writing life and my kid’s love of imaginative play.
My inner critic tells me every time I walk by the settlement that I should’ve cleaned it up weeks ago. How embarrassing would it be to have unexpected company? What would they think, but not say? How could I sit there and have coffee with those judge-y eyes examining the exposed seedy underbelly of my house? Then it goes for my jugular. Your inability to invite people over is stunting your kid’s ability for social interaction. Ouch. That one hurts the most. What am I to do?
First of all, I DO have free time during my week to clean up. However, I have committed to writing in my free time. I am no longer treating my writing as a sometimes hobby. I am a writer. It is my job. I will write every day, and it’s paid off. I’m done with the fifth draft of my novel and have sent if off to beta readers. The only obstacle to querying agents is my fear of hitting the send button. The novel of my heart is taking shape in my subconscious and begging to be let out. Writing makes me complete.
Second, my kids have begged me not to take down skid row. I love that they want to keep playing with it. I love that every time they crawl into it, they pretend something different, together.
Finally, the shantytown in my house is an opportunity to forgive myself. Self-forgiveness is not something that comes easily to me, but it does go hand in hand with my hard won self love. My house doesn’t have to look perfect. My life has become so much richer because I take my cleaning time to pursue my passion. On my death bed, I will not lament the fact I did not keep a cleaner house. I will cherish the fun my kids had in our house during their childhood, and I will remember the meaningful and fulfilling existence I experienced because I did not take the time to clean it up.
I am embracing the shantytown. Will I ever clean it up? Sure I will. But not just yet. I have a synopsis to write, and I think a family of lemurs just moved in.