I was cleaning up the kitchen the other morning—yet again. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I can clean when I don’t have to cook, and even consider it the best end of the deal. But when my daughter cooks, she doesn’t give a thought to the mess she leaves behind. When she is finished, it looks like a Texas tornado has hit my kitchen.
So after piles of dishes, I was down to wiping the countertops (and the appliances, and the backsplash, and . . . you get the idea) and lamenting the mess that comes from her creations. As I swept crumbs into the trashcan, it hit me: creating is messy, whatever the medium. Painting. Sculpting. Cooking. Even writing. When I get in a writing frenzy of creation, papers and books are often strewn from room to room, linking them like beads on a necklace.
It helped, realizing that her mess is simply a by-product of her creative process. It makes it easier to clean up after her because I know how she feels. I understand the creative urge, the need to see in visible form what exists in your head and heart, the complete focus on the creation, the oblivion to everything else around you.
So cook on, my girl. I’m right behind you, soapy rag in hand.