Let’s dive right into an essay within my new soon-to-be released book. My first book written as me...

So kinda a big deal because while I’ve been writing forever, I’ve not yet published as little old me– till now. I talk about that, writing and the deliciousness that can be life in the upcoming book. 

But for now...

As I get ready to finally add a kitchen in my cottage writer’s retreat...I want to take you back.

Back nearly five years to a temporary kitchen and the essay loving entitled

Frigging Dishes 

In my early years, I grew up in an environment where arguing was communicating. Now I see just how ineffective, inefficient, and back-assward that is. 

But back then I was simply modeling what I knew with my own Frenchman. 

We were on an island, much like how we met but no longer full of that honeymoon-like, island-hopping awesomeness. 

Instead, we were in life, a life we had created together and one I resisted at each and every turn.

Let me take you to that moment in time, my hands in water, banging dishes as I washed them with force. 

Frigging dishes.

Steaming internally.
Flushed externally.
Mumbling outwardly.
Screaming silently inward. 

So much happens when my hands are in water. 

Water is a conduit for much as everything is energy and water transfers that energy. 

For me, typically water gives me ideas and characters to write, stories to tell, and awareness around something that’s being processed. 

Well, I was wrist-deep
in a shit-ton of awareness
and I was choosing to be unhappy about it all.

Catch that—to be unhappy in a moment is nothing more than a choice. 

The dish soap that came with the place was vivid blue. 

Something I’d never buy and typically would not use,
but we had just arrived and this was our very first night together. 

And first fight. Again. 

His voice soft. Unsure. Struggling to understand.
My voice loud. Harsh. Feeling angry and unheard. 

This damn soap,
so strong,
overpowering me,
much like my over-the-top emotions. 

I remember this putrid chemical (to me) odor surrounding us like a thick, too-fragrant cloud. 

My body, senses, intolerant to most chemicals.
Much like I was being that evening. 

So I’m arguing with the husband and the smell of the detergent permeates the entire conversation. 

We go through the highs and lows—the disconnect—forever misunderstanding. 

Sighs (on my part),
Head shakes (on his).

Tears (on my end),
Pleading looks (on his).

Lack of connection.
Incapable of understanding.
All the emotional overload
Bubble-Wrapped in sudsy chemicals.

Dishes, half-washed, forgotten. 

The argument, eventually, brushed away,
never forgotten.

But worked through
like so much
these last few years. 

Acceptance.
Allowing.
My new middle names–
competing, of course, with more JOY. 

Pass the detachment, pretty please.

And then years later,
from this new state of being,
where JOY is my default setting,
I find myself squirting a stream of blue on a sponge,
the only option at hand.

And immediately, shockingly, I’m transported through time.

Hands once again sinking in doing the—shout it out, yo—
Frigging dishes! 

The smell, which lived within my memory banks
on a cellular level,
took me right back to
that night,
that fight. 

All of a sudden I was angry.
Fuming mad.

Steam arising from the hot water
and my scalding temper.

The glass in my hand in serious jeopardy of a good old tossing. 

I didn’t, but man, upon occasion, I so want to . . . 

To break the tension erupting within me.
To hear the shattering of glass,
of something, anything
but me.

If you please. 

Because even though that
misunderstanding, disagreement, argument
was now years in my rearview mirror,
it was a good thing The Frenchman wasn’t present in that new moment
as he could have been in the crosshairs of my

—welcome back—

short-tempered,
emotional
overloaded
fuse.

Brought to the surface
by sensory memory.

Crazy, no? 

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There’s no time to delay. This book-puppy is in final edits... and ready for a forever home soon–on your bookshelf or happily in your e-reader!

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Photo Credit: Brooke Lark @brookelark