I'm in the middle of another adventure. This one is called "Moving" and finds me 106 days later still living in my parent's basement.
Outwardly it is relatively calm. I send my children to school, I keep after the little ones still at home, our dinner table is a little bigger and I have a few more hands to hold the baby while I make dinner or listen to stories from the school day. So much about this is Gracious; captial "G", Christmas-wish-for-a-family, lottery win level Gracious. Any turmoil thus far is hard fought in the dark arena of my mind and emotions. And there has been a notable struggle. This has been much longer than I expected and there is no relief on the horizon.
But my stories from this present tense of my life are a little stranger than I expected and it seems we will have quite a few that will begin, "When we were living at my parent's...." I want to remember this one about perspective.
I went to open the blinds on our bedroom window and the twisty rod that tilts the slats open and shut was...missing. Just a little empty plastic nub near the top of the blinds with no rod attached. It was classic slapstick comedy. I reached without thinking to... an empty spot in the air. Frown. Pause to look at my hand in empty space. Slow pan up to the empty nub where the wooden rod should be attached.
This has happened before, I recall, in the room my 3 children share (ages 12, 9 and 4 sharing one room, bless 'em). It seems the boys get a little "energetic" and pull too hard on the rod that twists open their blinds and when I am finally made aware of this (though my own discovery and not because they told me, heavens no!) my eyes subsequently fall the the floor and surrounding area beneath the window to hunt a dropped, thin, wooden rod.
And that's where I go wrong. It always takes me a second. Because then it dawns on me: these are boys we're talking about. I shouldn't be looking for a wooden rod, I should be looking for the last place I saw my boys dangerously wielding a thin wooden sword, or light saber or walking stick, etc.. And today I recalled a half-memory (the automatic mechanism of remembering what your children were doing nearby while you were actually trying to work) from the same morning when my 4 yr old son asked if he could stir his oatmeal with the tip of a comically long, thin, wooden stick.
Who am I and what is my life that it didn't even occur to me at that moment in the morning to ask myself, "where did he get this stick?"
Eureka! Easily recovered in our teeny shelf/fridge/table area of the basement. The exact wooden stick with the empty slot on the end waiting to be reunited with the plastic nub that attaches to the mechanism that opens my blinds.
See? Perspective Shift saves the day (and the cost of repairing my parent's blinds). There's a lesson in this story, I'm sure, I'm just too tired to find it right now.