On the yellow chair in the living room is piled half of a load of clean laundry. The other half is folded and half of it is put away. The dishes are half washed and the bathroom is half clean. I watered all of the orchids–but half of the balcony plants. Half of tonight’s dinner is bubbling on the stove, spattering occasional drops on the scrubbed half of the kitchen floor. (How does someone scrub half of a kitchen floor? It is quite easy, really. You begin, proceed until you are interrupted and then leave off.)
I’m more than half tired so my ankles are crossed on the coffee table as the children are all in rest time simultaneously (I am not bragging. I cannot remember the last time this happened.). I sit down aware that I will write half of this post before the imminent interruptions do their thing. I sit down, thus far interruption-free, only to find that I have spent all my uninterrupted time pondering how often I am interrupted halfway through what I set out to do or say or think. This can be a frustrating state of affairs, day in and day out.
But let’s compare our households to a circus. (Not difficult, in my case.) If there are enough side shows a person could spend an entire day at the circus and never enter the big top. This seems too bad. But what if I told you that the side shows, far from being meaningless distractions, are actually full of little jungle animals exhibiting all sorts of interesting tricks? And that the big top, when you get there, will prove to hold only dirty dishes and piles of laundry.
Perhaps the interruptions are the main event.