I sent this horrible photo to a friend yesterday morning. 

The lighting, composition, and subject were not the point. 

The fact that the yellow-bathed counter was empty was the point. Devoid of dirty dishes.

And no, I was not bragging at my housekeeping skills; much the opposite! 

I wanted visual evidence of this most foreign occurrence. 

Time-stamped proof that at one point in time, however brief it may be, the dishes are done, man.*

A short time later, I also lit the wood stove from the previous night’s embers without a match. 

It did occur to me that it may be my last day on earth. 

Me being productive, successfully, consistently just doesn’t happen. 

If I do the things, it’s usually the wrong things, done in avoidance of the things that should be getting done. Which as a mom is actually pretty easy to do without being caught out because they are so many feckin’ things to do. 

But as this uber-meta book I just read pointed out, Hamlet says the mind is where no one gets away with anything – least of all on anal-retentive-perfectionist-with-a-penchant-for-people-pleasing-that-pushes-productivity planet. 

And so, on days like this, when I do a lot of the things that should get done on the daily, plus things that were actually on my list, the warm feeling it engenders somewhere between my sternum and Adam’s apple is certainly foreign. 

I know productivity does not equal worth and is not a requirement of rest, but whether it’s success that feels foreign or the new parameters I’ve finally adopted and embodied for myself after logically knowing them for awhile now, it feels like a new day. 

I even did all.the.dishes last night. 

And, yes, as I type that, I’m fighting the urge to duck under the table to hide from the obviously imminent lightning bolt about to zap me in half.

Foreign feelings take a while to feel familiar. 

Hopefully it’ll take awhile for the dishes to pile up again, too.  

* bonus points if you know from which 80s teen movie that line comes