The kids are in bed.
I've been home from yoga class for more than hour and my mind is awake. Aware. My eyes feel wide in their sockets. It's starting to get late.
John says goodnight and tucks himself in, but I can't go there. Not yet. I'll never sleep.
I have a pile of computer work I could pare down. And an equal pile of dishes by the kitchen sink. There are bathrooms to clean and I have new book from the library and I could stand to write a new blog post.
But I don't want to do any of that. Not working, not cleaning, not reading, not writing.
I could flip on the TV, but silence is singing to me right now. And besides, my teacher focused our yoga practice tonight on forward folds, which function to draw us inward. I don't feel like looking through an electronic pane into someone else's world tonight. I want to be inside me.
So I go downstairs. Dig up a few disheveled shirts from the too-deep to-be-ironed pile. And do exactly what I feel like doing.
I flatten out my thoughts as they trickle down my sleeves, one by one. They curl slightly, stiff from the heat, and I hang them carefully from doorknobs and cabinet handles. These are temporary decorations -- I'll hide them back in the closet soon -- but I like the colors strung from unexpected places. I send simple prayers up on the steam as I work slowly, deliberately.
I'm getting something done.
But now my head is starting to feel heavy so I turn off the iron. Close the lid to my mind. I leave the shirts hanging where they are, though -- I want to see them in the morning.
