The Domestic Goddess and Murphy Brown

The intermittent hum and clicking of the sewing machine is the white noise that comforts me today.  As I try to guide the fabric through, my mind wanders as it is want to do, and I see scenes of action, love, and chaos, all waiting for a bit of a voice.  My mind speaks in prose, almost as if my thoughts are from the pages of a novel, describing what I see, feel, and dream.  It is during those times, that it comes to me, when I least expect it, and I revel in the fact that domesticity has given me the solace to find the words I crave.

I have never been the one who anyone could consider domestic, as in the goddess sense.  My forays in the craft world are laughable, and to be honest, my cleaning skills have much to be desired.  If one were to ask a friend from high school, I would not be the one remembered as the June Cleaver-type of woman. The television show Murphy Brown was at it's height (I know, aging myself dreadfully here) and many thought I would be the unwed, career girl, much like she was, hardened and world-wise.  How strange it feels to look back at that time and the goals and dreams I had, and how they have morphed and changed.  I don't say that I am June by any means, nor do I profess to be a Murphy, but I have come to some sort of happy medium for myself, and it awakens the deep seeded dreams awaiting fulfillment.

Today, while at home, nursing my two sick children, I sewed.  I could have been writing, but it didn't feel right.  I had too many thoughts swarming around my head, and I had too much energy to try to log them into my new writing program (StoryMill) to help me organize and prepare my thoughts.  (I'm a digi nut, so I needed something I could use on my laptop, but hadn't found anything other than a spreadsheet to fill in the gaping holes for the stories in my head.) I needed to move, and going outside wasn't an option with croupy coughs and upset tummies.  Sewing was a quiet and productive activity that would help me expend energy while my kidlets slept.

Up and down, the needle made it's way across the fabric, the clicking of the cutting mechanism, sharp, and final at the end of each row.  It was there that I heard the sound of a crow outside in the yard, and I was reminded of something I had meant to record earlier.  The whisper of the bare branches rubbing against my kitchen window created another image ready to capture, all because of the time I spent humming along.

I still don't like to be considered a domestic goddess, although I would more than appreciate the skill it takes to keep my home clutter and dust free.  I would love to have the gourmet meals prepared nightly and well dressed and behaved children to boot.  I've come to the conclusion that no one could come close to that particular exalted sphere.  I am me, and that is all that is important.  I am not June, Murphy, or any derivative thereof.  Hello, my name is Teri, and I want to be a writer.

Thanks to Google for the image!


**In other news, I did receive my very first rejection letter.  While most would think this sad and deterring, it is actually something I am quite happy with.  It shows that I submitted something!!!  I am glad that I submitted and learned from the process.  Onward and upward!**