Last night I had 11 people over to dinner - I am the most unMartha like hostess. About half an hour before the first guests were to arrive I phoned up one and asked if she could come with chairs. But still I'd over filled my small flat and 3 people had to perch on the sofa in a small kind sub party in the corner. As I was dishing up I realised I was running out of plates - dashed to my understair cupboard and retrieved some more and washed them quickly.

Rather than being perfectly organised I pray that people arrive late as I hurridly sweap floors shove wool into bags attempt to banish signs of life. Mean while the orange double tulips I bought from the supermarket open extravagantly. Then I give up light candles turn off the lights and hope that the slight disarray will engender a cameraderie that a more polished do with chase away.

There is always a point when I wish I'd never got myself into this situation. Why oh why did it seem such a good idea when I clicked on the email addresses and sent out invitations so gaily two weeks ago. And why didn't I start preparing right then and there? STOP ! This is the worst worst repose to life the 'I should have done it right done it better been more organised more x'. The more I relax into what I am rather than what I feel others think I ought to be the easier it is. AND I have more energy - the leakage towards the other way of living is just too much.

Imperfection
I am falling in love
with my imperfections
The way I never get the sink really clean,
forget to check my oil,
lose my car in parking lots,
miss appointments I have written down,
am just a little late.
I am learning to love
the small bumps on my face
the big bump of my nose,
my hairless scalp,
chipped nail polish,
toes that overlap.
Learning to love
the open-ended mysteryof not knowing why
I am learning to fail
to make lists,
use my time wisely,
read the books I should.
Instead I practice inconsistency,
irrationality, forgetfulness.
Probably I should
hang my clothes neatly in the closet
all the shirts together, then the pants,s
end Christmas cards, or better yet
a letter telling ofmy perfect family
But I’d rather waste time
listening to the rain,
or lying underneath my cat
learning to purr.
-by Elizabeth Carlson

There is this fantastic poem over at 37 days which I'm nicking in its entirety