There were forty-seven children (and two visiting parrots) in Mary's story time group at the library this afternoon. While she listened to books about pirates and sang songs about pirates, songs with plenty of hand motions, I wrote down on my calendar the dates for Lego club and "Thursday Adventures"; I navigated through the swarm of other moms filling out paperwork on behalf of their own sons and daughters participating in the summer reading program; I helped my older three find books (I've been told I'm pretty talented at eying fairies, knights, mythical beasts, whathaveyou amidst the rows and rows of both fiction and non-fiction) to keep them occupied between 3:00 and 4:00 pm, which is when I try to get at least one or two things checked off of my to-do list. I've had very little time since summer break has started to cook, wash clothes, return e-mails, write anything at all, so engrossed have I been in scurrying around from the YMCA to the park to the Resale Shop, refereeing squabbles along the way about whose turn it is to sit where in the minivan.
I've been especially snippy at my kids this week, particularly put out lately by spills, loud noises and complaints of any kind whatsoever (C'mon now, who doesn't like slimy green pea soup?) I believe I've been putting too much pressure upon myself to be good - good at disciplining, entertaining, nourishing, good at stretching myself to become a little more fit, focused and forgiving ... or maybe I'm just tired. I can see already how these three irreplaceable months could easily slip through my fingers, how I could gripe my way through June, July and August, nit-picking to death my poor imperfect (yet extraordinary) babies. "Watch your attitude," I say, while modeling nothing but impatience.
The poem below brought me comfort for some reason - a reason that is hard for me to pinpoint. I like how Ms. Atwood zeroes in on the unavoidable tediousness of living; so much of my personal angst is born of lofty expectations. I believe I've been knocked off course a bit and that this restlessness keeping me all tense (and up at night) is a sure sign I'm out of balance. It sounds cliche and oversimplified, but I have indeed learned (countless times...oh mercy!) that the only way to love my life, my family, myself, "as is" is to turn my attention away from our brokenness and on to the Wholeness that is Christ, and everything and everyone grafted to Him. And here is where, my friends, I am so abundantly indebted to the Church and to Her sacraments. I am aching to go to confession, to receive the Eucharist. I am grateful that I do not have to try and work my own self out of this funk but can grasp the hands of the saints, can meditate on the daily scriptures, can pray the prayers of the Fathers when my own wants and words are so muddled and convoluted. The Church is a hospital and I am in need of healing. She provides the medicine, I show up in faith and partake of it. I struggle, but do not despair.
Tomorrow morning I will rise, and not first make the coffee, not become carried away like I've been doing with getting the kids dressed and fed, our stuff and snacks packed up, forgetting to offer that day, my decisions, up to God in prayer, and then forgetting again the next day as well, forgetting and forgetting until I'm all out of sorts and disoriented - no, tomorrow I will rise, make the sign of the cross and remember.
God, help me remember.
“Pray and then speak. That’s what to do with your children. If you are constantly lecturing them, you’ll become tiresome and when they grow up they’ll feel a kind of oppression. Prefer prayer and speak to them through prayer. Speak to God and God will speak to their hearts. That is, you shouldn’t give guidance to your children with a voice that they hear with their ears. You may do this too, but above all you should speak to God about your children. Say, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, give Your light to my children. I entrust them to You. You gave them to me, but I am weak and unable to guide them, so, please, illuminate them.’"
- Elder Porphyrios
Bored
Margaret Atwood
All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
