It had been a few days, when I realised that my house was a mess (and it still kind of is now). My fridge was a mess with no actual order, the table in the kitchen had an assortment of things strewn all over it, the bathroom floor needed a good wipe and things kind of were just everywhere in the living room... there wasn't really an order. It wasn't like King Kong stepped all over those house kind of mess, but it was still messy (you know what I mean).
For a few days, I left it... simply because I didn't have the time nor the energy to do it all. And also... because it didn't bother me that much. The house wasn't dirty, no, it was just messy. I remember a week ago, when I had pointed to a bunch of bags of mum's to her and asked her to sort it out, cause it was at best, clutter -- her response? "The house isn't messy, it's just lived in". And we all know lived in is just another fancy, in-denial term for messy, ha.
So my house was lived in. But... I realised one thing I had never felt with any state of mess.
I am grateful for mess. I am grateful that there's so much food in my fridge that I can sort out and put in their rightful deck, a table of an assortment of things that I had used during different times of the day--evidence that I did something today. Mess is a proof of life--and when it comes to my house, I liked it. There is a sense of freedom in that, just letting things go for a bit.