Blank Slate

It's the first time I've been home in the morning light since I pruned the rose bush, and I sit at the kitchen table looking at the results. There are fewer branches, to be sure, and there is a clarity, the beginnings of new growth.

How I wish I could bring that clarity to other tasks at hand: to the boxes and shelves and hidden corners of my house. To the jumble of ideas in my brain.

What's required is the kind of careful, methodical approach I used last Sunday. That requires time ... and space. Long afternoons, mornings without appointments. The blank slate of an empty room.