Late at night, after I put into my head all that the day has left for me to put into my head, and I examine the scars on my body and within, and decide that the day is through, I think about matters which at 1:28 a.m. are suddenly pressing. Philosophical matters, life matters, love matters. And, matters that have seemingly little to do with the dirty dishes in my sink.

I think about the people I know, the places I've been, my own morality and mortality, experiential evaluation of motives and machinations and manipulations. And after mulling over what really will prove, in the morning, to have been another useless exercise in rumination, I either make a cup of tea, or read. I ignore the dirty dishes in my sink, ignore the dirty clothes on the floor, and ignore the temptation to ruminate on questions that cannot be answered and problems that cannot be solved (and because no one, I must remind myself, will expect me to have the answers to such questions in the morning). In a word, I ruminate.

And thus, ladies and gentlemen, comes today's (perhaps this week's, or this month's) fabulous epiphany:

My habits, not my desires, are what define me.

Simple, I know. However, proverbs cross-stitched on pillows and posters of inspirational quotes featuring kittens don't have nearly as much bang for their buck as internal epiphany. Even if that epiphany must be made over and over again, and feels new every time. (And you're thinking, well, Margaret, you're wasting your time. Have an epiphany, remember it, move on. Not so easy, says I.)

The lure of procrastination, which I so often succumb to, only leaves these unanswered questions about the worth and direction and meaning and poetry of my life open to further scrutiny. The more I abstain from good habits (i.e. doing the dishes, going grocery shopping, getting to bed early, aka being a competent adult), the more I ponder life's big questions.

The other day I found myself holding back in a heated discussion in which I was itching to participate. Very much unlike me until the past year or so, I found myself torn with the prospect of volunteering my point, or keeping quiet. My brain filled with the urgings of doubt and insecurity. Insecurity must look like the token bully of seventh grade, a smirk glued to his pudgy little prepubescent face. He wears smells like ax and has an annoying voice and is an asshole.

Little Damien won this battle, and I said nothing. I knew I would regret it, and I did, and I do. My point would have enriched the conversation with another perspective, another valid point, I later reminded myself.

So, why all the insecurity? As an abuse survivor and the child of an alcoholic who also grapples with a debilitating long-term illness, this may be a loaded question. However.

The dishes are in the sink. Dirty. Ready to be washed. And I spend minutes of precious sleeping time beating life's big questions raw, instead of washing the damn dishes or writing the memoir or practicing the scales.