Footprint

My footprint is out of control. I’m not talking about this in the ecological sense, though I’m sure that simply being an American makes mine too large. I’m talking about the way I live in and expand in my house. We have tried to keep my hobbies and work contained. I work with clay in one quadrant of the garage. I garden within the perimeters of the fence and inside the brick boundaries. I keep my textbooks in the office with the pottery shipping supplies. That all sounds reasonable, except that a quarter of the dining room is covered in succulents, the dining table in pottery and prints. I set up a table to work on clay ornaments where my car was supposed to park, the office is spewing forth boxes and bubble wrap, and my textbooks are hanging out beside the couch. The garden appears to be chucking out piles and piles of refuse to just the other sides of the two gates. This could carry on indefinitely were it not to one HUGE thing about to change. In a week, we will bring home a Christmas tree. I’ve been shuffling messes around and trying to move all my shenanigans back into my office. Now that pottery production is finished for the year, except for glazing this last load, I tore down the table and pulled the car back into the garage. I sorted through all those photographs of friggin’ bugs, put them in a stack and cleared room to move about half the succulents to the office desk. I’m rooting a tray of jade casualties from collisions with the boys, and will pot those in some of the swirl cups I threw – or we will drink from the cups, and the jades will just be in a tray forever. Now I’m off to read a book about the growing world freshwater crisis while I soak in the tub.