There are mumbles beneath the bubbles

I spent today the way anyone should spend their lazy Saturday afternoon. I watched cartoons with my kid sister (while checking my twitter in between pieces of dialogue). I helped her out with her guinea pigs, and replaced their water. Finally the evening ended off with grilled chicken, not to mention my parents and I quaffed away at the ruby champagne in our goblets like suburban Romans. Sounds all very romantic. (I know I do have that effect.)

So dinner finishes, and I guiltily bolt to the kitchen sink (before my Dad’s domestic voice goads me on). Wiping away grime, stacking plates, sweeping dirt – I don’t think any decent person can agree it’s the best place to be in an evening.

There is something that hauls back the conscious reins, something that brings me to attention. While the cleansing commences, an artistic side of me peeks out. Very soon after my hand reaches the pearlescent neck if the champagne glass, and its gleaming rim. The way soap suds jostle together then plummet down the slopes. They squirm and slide off the tip of the circular base. They tell my artistic eyes to stop…pause…and listen to the beauty talking back.

Maybe it’s the whole process of cleansing, and wiping away everything that tells me I’m turning over a new leaf inwardly? Perhaps, giving my hands something to do, gives my brain space and time to breathe?

I’ve wrestled long enough with my own Muse not to question it.
Just sit down. Listen. See where it leads.



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