Giving Up

My smart, handsome and very perceptive brother came to visit for the holidays. It was delicious. We cooked. We laughed. We played way too much Wii. We drank gallons of coffee.

He said something that I have chewed on longer than my late night snacky. It began as we installed a pellet stove onto the back porch. The process entailed much cleaning, organizing and moving of furniture. It was already a wreck. From the wreckage we created a two zone all season room. On one side is the man cave. On the other is the kids play area.

In the process, he asked me when I had given up. When I had given up on organizing and cleaning. He observed, with no malice or criticism, that I had never had such an unorganized life.

At first, my tough broad hackles rose. How dare he? I work full time, have two energetic boys, a dad and a very busy life. Who cares that my floor isn't clean or that I can't find anything--usually.

Instead of getting crunchy and telling him where to stick it. I just moved on with the day. And I thought over what he said and what he meant.

I didn't give up. Not when it was really bad. Not recently when it was kinda bad again. Not at all. I think.

Except, he was right. Somewhere along the depression highway I picked up certain baggage or at least began to recognize all the luggage I was tugging around. I think I also dropped some bags too.

I dropped the pretty purse with the secret compartments containing little notes. Notes written in the whispers of dreams and aspirations. I set aside the bucket for cleaning out the chaos and confusion. I forgot to fill my sippy cup of hope.

He was right. I had given up on some things. I needed to pick up and stop giving up. It doesn't mean I'll have a clean kitchen floor or always know where everything is. It just means I'm going to start giving again.