Bread crumbs on the table.

I am not sure how it happens, but it does none the less.  Little things pile, small pieces of a busy life, a full home are left lying around.  They get ignored, left for another day and soon it is not so little.  There is something to a home that is lived in, where traces of life in this space give a certain comfort.  The safety in knowing that none of us are quite there yet, that human perfection does not exist, and permission for authenticity is granted.  I sometimes choose not to clean before a friend comes over, wanting them to know that their lovely little tornadoes are welcome in this space and no personal possession that I own is worth more then that relationship.  But it is a delicate balance between authenticity and aesthetic.  Function and form.  Healing is happening but my wrist still has little function, limited range.  Typing may be easier but yoga is still out.  Knowing that limitation makes want to do it all the more.  Never mind that yoga and I had been apart for some time before this.  As I had written it off as trendy fitness, for beautiful late 20s single, who while being able to balance in tree pose could not balance a check book, let alone a baby on the hip with a cold cup of coffee in hand.  Like the cold coffee it had left a sour taste in my mouth, and I wanted none of it..........  Until now.  The lure of what I cannot have drawing me in.  As long as I chose to forsake yoga there was no desire for it, but now the choice removed by physical limitation I think of it longingly.  As my wrist heals this longing shall pass and I shall again be in my right mind, fully realizing that not everything I long for is my true longing but rather an emotional knee jerk reaction to the moment.  Because we can't live life in a studio and balance is a myth.  There is only reality, and the reality is that my house is dirty, and for now I am okay with the breadcrumbs on the table.