This house is a wreck! I cry, as I walk around our house on an ordinary day. With things strewn everywhere, Marie Kondo would be appalled. Surely we don’t love our possessions well if we leave them in heaps all over the place.

If you ever stop by my house unannounced, you’re likely to walk in to a house full of messes. This doesn’t mean you’re not welcome. This is simply my way of saying: You’ve been forewarned. In fact, the moment you walk in and turn your eyes to our mantel, this is what you’ll see:

PARDON THE MESS MY CHILDREN ARE MAKING MEMORIES

On any given day, you can walk around the many rooms of our house and find a mess waiting to be picked up. It’s not because we’re total slobs, I promise. I’m actually a bit of a neat freak. But homeschooling means we’re together all the time and there’s just not a lot of time to get the house cleaned up before someone makes another mess. Sometimes it seems just as I’m cleaning up a mess in one room, my kids are busy destroying another.

To tell you the truth, sometimes messes are my biggest trigger. Finding the house in disarray makes me go completely crazy. I want every room magazine-worthy. I like a clean house—I prefer it to the messy one I mostly find—but I’m learning that there is magic to be found in making a mess. I’m learning to take a step back and let the mess happen. I’m starting to ask myself: What might happen if instead of hating the mess, I embraced it?

A few weeks ago, we went to the library for the first time in a year. We’ve been picking up books at the outdoor holds window since some time in the fall, but we haven’t been able to walk in the building and see all the books on display. On the day I finally made an appointment, we were given 40 minutes to check out as many books as we could possibly want. We filled 4 bags with all the books we could find. It didn’t really matter much what book it was; just the act of choosing a book from the library shelf gave us a sense that life might one day return to normal. Ten minutes after we got home, my living room looked like this:

Later that evening, I looked around and had to laugh. There were so many memories and stories hidden within this one big mess. The yarn on the table tells the story of how my oldest started finger-knitting to keep her hands busy as she listened to our lessons earlier that morning. The blankets all over the floor and the couch tell the story of how cold our house is in the winter. How we keep the thermostat low to save energy and rely on blankets to keep us cozy and warm. The ark and the stuffed fox on the floor and the toy sandbox and boat on the coffee table all have stories to tell of imaginary lands being created—make believe stories my kids told. Creativity in its purest, rawest form. The books show the splendor of how we finally got to walk back inside the library we so loved and pick out all the books we wanted. How we came home and spent hours on the floor reading as many as we could before it was time for dinner. How we left the mess to get everyone to bed on time, and how I just didn’t have the energy late at night to clean it up.

Last month was a particularly busy month with lots of family celebrations. One morning I snuck out to the grocery store alone to get supplies for my daughter’s birthday dinner. When I got to the car to unload my buggy full of bags, I opened the trunk to find this:

My first instinct was to get angry when I discovered the car hadn’t been emptied the night before. To feel frustrated that I had to rearrange my car before I could put my groceries in. But instead I took a deep breath and smiled.

The scene before me reminded me of the many hours spent sledding in the week before. It told the story of how we truly embraced winter this year. The story of how we were able to sneak away mid-afternoon for a family sledding adventure—something we couldn’t do in years past because of David’s commute. This mess in my car told the story of the fun we had in a particularly snowy February in New England. How sledding became a respite when we still couldn’t see our family and friends. It tells the story of how we played together. Laughed together. Made memories together.

One day last week, I walked out the door to discover I probably didn’t need the snow pants I put over two other layers of pants. I took them off and threw them on the ground hastily as I ran out the door to catch the rest of my family heading down the hill on roller blades and a ripstik. The seasons are starting to change in New England and this is the time of year when the entryway almost always looks like this:

Boots everywhere. Snow pants too. Hats, jackets, mittens and scarves in varying degrees of warmth. Bike helmets, dirty socks, and a flip flop or two. Ready for whatever weather Mother Nature might decide to throw our way. Yesterday it was 32. Last week, 18. On the day I’m writing this, it’s 63. In just a week we’ve gone from needing long underwear and snow pants to flip flops and shorts—for my kids at least. 60 is still jeans and boots weather for me.

When I walk in, it’s so easy for me to get irritated by the piles of layers hanging around, but if I allow myself to stop a minute, I realize that even this mess in my entryway tells a story. A story of the winter hikes we’ve taken. Of how we are anxiously awaiting the coming of summer. It tells the story of how we’ve been so busy enjoying the great outdoors that we haven’t taken a moment to put the extra warmth away. Of how we aren’t quite ready to store the winter gear because we know we’ll likely get a Spring Snow.

Three years ago I spent the long New England winter learning how to make sourdough. Once or twice a month now, I pull out the supplies and for a day, my counter looks like this:

Bread days are some of the messiest days. Flour floats through the air like dust, and sourdough starter sticks to the bowls like glue. But this mess tells the story of that very first year—how I made loaf after loaf of failed sourdough bread. How I couldn’t get it to rise just right, no matter what I tried.

The mess I make when I bake bread reminds me of the friend who answered my gazillion questions when I was learning. The one who told me what I did wrong—while at the same time telling me it tasted fine—and that I would eventually get the hang of it, if only I would continue to try. It tells the story of how one day it happened by accident because I left the house and forgot bread was rising. When I came back and finally baked it, it turned out perfectly and I did a happy dance in my kitchen all alone. Now every time I make bread I’m reminded to be patient. To persevere. To keep trying even when it feels like everything is a big fat fail.

I was unloading dishes one day while listening to Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. In a chapter about perfection, she talked about how our fear of messes and our disdain for clutter can keep us from living a truly full life. In that moment I realized all this clutter in my home—all the messes we make—they can actually be a gift if only I allow it.

Immediately I pressed pause, rummaged through my messy kitchen drawer to find the hidden letter tiles and put this quote on my letter board:

CLUTTER AND MESS SHOW US LIFE IS BEING LIVED
~ANNE LAMOTT

The truth is, it can be so hard to step back and let the mess happen. Sometimes I get so focused on having a neat and tidy house that I miss the magic that happens when we make the mess itself. Sometimes I forget that the making of the mess is the fun part of life. The part where memories are made.

Instead of looking around and seeing mess, I want to see beauty. Instead of seeing clutter, I want to see magic. I want the messes imprinted on my mind so that I will never forget the stories that they tell.