Let the Daisies Fall Where They May

Hmmmm. Here I am with my friendly (if geriatric) laptop, surrounded by blank walls, remembering the stories those walls could tell if only they could talk. Three of our four kids have called this “their” room at one time or another. Emily’s the only one who consistently stayed in the same room (another bedroom) and so never had a sojourn here.

During one phase this used to be the two boys’ room…back when it was a very noisy, semi-disgusting but full-of-life place. The room was very beat-up in those days, with walls well-punctured with dart holes and cave-man carvings on the back of the door. Hand-me-down sound equipment stood like a skyscraper in one corner. Two walls were covered in red-and-blue racecar wallpaper (my idea, not theirs) and a large box with ratty, torn corners fit under the bottom bunk. This box was literally overflowing with wires, screws, rusty bolts, and other must-have treasures, and could be pulled in-and-out conveniently from beneath the bed for easy access. Every time I swept the room the vacuum rattled with tiny screws (Fritz jr.’s) or lego pieces (John’s) that hid out in the camouflage-ness of the braided rug. The room was usually dirty, with clothes strewn everywhere, and the closet floor boasted big globs of dry mud (and maybe cow manure) from tennis shoes that were well-coated on every side. Ah yes, a true manly room.

Later, when her older siblings had already moved out of the house, Katie took over this room. The racecar paper came down and we painted the walls a cheery pale yellow. She chose an almost-avocado-green comforter for the antique Jenny Lind bed – the one with the knobby head-and-footboards, in case you don’t know. I re-dressed a dressing table from my own teen years with a new flowery top and skirt, and Katie filled the top with pretty perfume bottles, combs, mirrors and such…until a lit (girly) oil lamp dripped and the skirt caught fire causing us to scream and run in circles in true female fashion (her cool-calm-collected younger bro handled the crisis with a fire extinguisher). A big bookshelf stood in one corner of the room with an artsy rock, bird nest, and dry flowers on top and plenty of books and PICTURES of cheesy-grinning girlfriends (and a few boyfriends) sprinkled here and there. Those were the days Kate worked at All Fired Up, the paint-your-own-pottery place. And now, although there’s nothing much in the room except a bed and empty dresser, a tiny remnant of Katie’s All Fired Up days remains: a hand-painted ceramic light switch cover.

The background of this tiny cover is pale green, stricken with a hint of light - sunlight, in my opinion. Eight daisy-type-look-alikes of various sizes and shapes with decidedly black centers (black-eyed-susans but with white petals) dance in different angles as if they’ve been picked and then suddenly thrown into the air to cascade to earth according to whim – or destiny. Some stems point up, some down, and some don’t seem to have stems.

It’s a very Katie-ish piece of art.

For now, this room has become my computer hide-away – a retreat from the noise of the television that consumes the entire downstairs in the evenings. I like it up here; I like looking at, and well beyond, Katie’s daisies and getting all fuzzy-brained when I’m trying to compose a FaithWriter entry or dream up a blog topic. For being such a small thing, the light switch cover says something about expression, creativity, and go-for-it-ness. If I were to name it or give it a title, I might choose, “Whatever.”

“Whatever” is a pretty good motto, after all. It leaves the door open for possibility and inspiration. I need to respond with “whatever” more often – when things don’t go as expected, which is more often than not these days. So thanks, Katie, for the daisies dancing on the light switch cover. Thanks for leaving behind a “whatever” icon and encouraging me to throw my daily daisies with wild abandon, and let God decide how they’ll fall.

You know the old saying: let the chips (I mean daisies) fall where they may.