Every now and then I succumb to an uncontrollable desire to attack the chaos and embark on a furious cleaning of my son s room, the studio, and the garden shed. When finished, I sigh in satisfaction. All the little plastic figures and Legos lie sorted by size and suit in their bins in the playroom. Footprints and spilled juice disappear into the sponge mop. Canvases line up, paper sits in stacks, and brushes stand freshly washed, waiting patiently for wet paint.
Tools hang neatly on their hooks in the shed and the garden sports a crisp haircut and grooming.
Then the gophers strike. I reconsider the cyanide capsules, hesitate, and take the humane route, flattening the erupted earth with my boot. I m learning to coexist with the enemy. After all, what happens out there in the patch of earth, like what happens in a painting or in life, has to be somewhat left to chance, the forces of the elements, and an occasional foe who messes it all up.