Untidy

“You are making the room untidy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please, have a seat.”

Are you serious? 

The two of us were both volunteers in a Moroccan animal sanctuary, passing the hottest hours of the day by drinking tea beside a dozen rescue dogs. Her remark caught me by surprise. Did my looming presence make her uncomfortable? I found a seat across from her still affronted by the meaning of her words. Untidy. Did my angle of our conversation bother her? I reached for the pot of sweet mint tea and poured its golden steep from high above my glass. In Moroccan culture, it’s a gesture of welcome and respect - but in this moment, I felt neither.

All my life, I made rooms untidy. I imagined the walls of my own home decorated with pinned maps, antique globes, and framed photographs from all corners of the world. Visitors could contemplate the space of my personal gallery, yet speculate on the open backpack in the corner of the room. Where was I headed next? I thought of these rooms as only temporary installations, ready to move on to the next collection. How untidy of me - to busy myself with what is to come rather than muse with my guests.