Just how many times can I write about attempting to find meaning in monotony? How often can I think on the moments in my life that seem to be happening simultaneously across the years?
It's as though I have had a 15-year conversation in my mind that picks itself up every time I stand on the foam pad in front of my kitchen sink, perpetually swirling and dipping and rinsing. Constantly filling the left side of my stained stainless steel sink with steaming tap water; observing as the jets force the squirt of generic blue dish soap into bubbling submission... Scrubbing and scraping and pondering on Life until all that is left is a filmy gray scum with suspicious lumps tumbling against my hands.
Haven't I thought these thoughts before?
Haven't I had the same revelations repeatedly
It's as though the steam has softened my brain, because the conversation ceases as soon as I pull that plug and watch the water flow through the drain; washing away the filth of our food and the brilliance of a thought that cannot be held onto without the assistance of a soap-filled sink.
Poetry Month in our Homeschool - Sure, you *can *force a kid to read a book. Any book, actually. But you * can't* force a child to love to read. You can't push and push literature on them a...
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