It's hard to find time to write or read; so many times I've wanted to escape into a quiet room with a large old leather chair, plop down, and read. Sure, it's in those times (rare in the years of children) I've had the most inspiration for writing. But things change, and finding time to think about stories, or mull over new ideas for poems, has changed as well.
I now find my evenings filled with domestic chores (after a splash of afternoons where I am James the train helping Thomas and Percy with their loads, or Blizzard fighting Iron Man - or Iron Men, as it were); folding laundry, scrubbing dishes, picking up toys, and gathering trash, all these things require my (and our) attention.
By the time my wife and I have a quiet home, the boys tucked in bed, the best we can do is prop each up. The other night we talked until 11 - the next day I was a zombie, and I'm pretty sure she was too.
So, what's a writer to do?
Then, a week or so ago, I had my hands in soapy water and I was thinking about mundane tasks; the sky outside was a brilliant orange. It was then I remembered that the "mundane," the "ordinary," as we know them are an illusion. I stood there and scraped cheese off a plate; I rinsed sippy-cups; I dried a couple frying pans. And the whole time I was actually able to keep an image in my mind, an image from the sky outside, and descriptive words danced around my mind's eye.
I'm learning to embrace the mundane, the ordinary, not as lifeless moments, but as times to slowly consider, to reflect on the day, on the task, on my family, on Jesus. And if I'm able to fully embrace those seemingly trivial times of the day, it's then I realize that no time is to be wasted; all times are a gift.
It was wonderful, and the next time I sat down to write, I felt refreshed. See each moment of the day for what it truly is.