The Rhythm of Home

There's something exciting about staying in a rental house for five days. As soon as we pulled up to Woodland #1, the children spilled out of the vans and pressed eagerly toward the front door. The natural explorers were determined to find and appoint bedrooms to all family members, and did so with amazing swiftness. The men hovered around the vehicles unloading suitcases and tinkering with bikes, while the women were instinctively drawn to the kitchen. Each one fell into their natural rhythm.

Mom, Sister and I wasted no time in preparing the kitchen to our liking. Especially there did we find rhythm, for in rhythm there is familiarity, and in familiarity dwells comfort. The same blood coursing through each of us carried a pulse that dictated when we should move forward, when we should move aside. In this waltz tempo we stepped and swayed to the gentle beat of domesticity. One, two, three . . . one, two, three. Daily we were drawn to it, though it mirrored the work at home from which we were taking a brief vacation. Peeling potatoes, step. Slicing bread, swing. Stirring soup, sway.

Likewise we found pleasure in making the beds each morning: one, two, three . . . tossing a load of towels in the laundry each afternoon: one, two, three . . . scrubbing little brown bodies each evening: one, two, three . . . (four, five, six . . .). But somehow it was different here. It was work that was done together with little heed given to the hour -- or even the day. There was no need to rush. We had no appointments to keep, no deadlines to meet. Just the rhythm of living each moment. The living waltz that gently stepped and swayed, with all dancers delighting to take part.