Struggling through with joy... |
kind of.
Struggling through with joy... |
I think I nearly sleep about halfway through
Thoughts intrude Colors drift from the bottom of my eyelids to the top Yellow turns to blue, joins in the center, floats to the top Thoughts intrude: An angry student worrying me; what to buy at the store I breathe. I recite my sacred word This is the practice The simplest, quietest practice The hardest practice To know God Perhaps To know the interior of our heart Where the nuns tell us God resides I am thinking of groceries An angry, hurting little boy That’s not God And yet My husband is pleased by The easiness of my laugh that afternoon The day unfolds and I do not resist Time expands and I with it Easy hours of children playing Napping Laundry sorting Dog walking My heart and mind are quiet Almost almost content Be still and know that I am God The nun recites We are still But I do not know Is this God? These colors behind my eyes The twist and release in the front of my mind The acceptance, later Of minor changes in plans A child with a cold Who will not nap Dinner later than I like Too much laundry My heart and mind are quiet Almost Almost content The nuns do not promise Anything big “You will not become Mother Teresa” One says; We laugh. You will need less Stuff Affirmation Information She tells us. If you practice. I could do with less needing. Be still and know The nun says As we settle into silence. Be still. Be.
4 Comments
Most Friday nights we eat junk food and watch a movie, like many American families. We drag the toddler’s high chair in next to my husband, who occupies the recliner, and my son and I sit next to each other on the couch.
You would think this is a relaxing affair, but it very often isn’t. Yet we persist. Why? Because my son is alternately terrified of and fascinated by movies. We’re afraid it will turn to just terrified if we stop watching them every Friday night. We are careful about what we watch because he is so easily scared. He usually spends the first fifteen minutes of the movie climbing up on the back of the couch to get away from the overwhelming action of, for example, Horton Hears a Who, folding his earlobes up with his thumbs and covering his ears with his hands. His younger sister has taken to doing the same thing, although she has the confused look of a person who’s wondering what the big deal is. When he’s burying his head in the throw pillows she’s screaming with delight at whatever is happening on the screen. They are two very different kids. My boy is sensitive. Which is 100% ok with me. Kind of. I worry. (I worry most of the time. If I’m not worrying about something specific, I’m worried there’s something I should be worrying about that I missed. Yes, I’m serious. Yes, I’m working on it.) I only worry a little bit about his fears, because I know most kids his age tend to get scared. I don’t want my son to be crippled by them, as I have been for a lot of my life. I’m a quiet worrier (cue husband clearing his throat in polite disagreement) but my various anxieties have obstructed my path far too many times. I also worry about the implications of raising a sweet, sensitive boy in our world. He goes to school in little over a year, and he will finally escape the safe little bubble we’ve made for him: his only daycare since age one has been grandparents. He goes to a small, church preschool with similarly sheltered children. He’s never had a night away from us. He never watches the news; we rarely have the t.v. on at all unless we’re watching sports or cooking shows. He only plays video games once or twice a year, when we go to the local arcade or when his cousins visit. Even then the games are strictly age-appropriate. But very soon, he'll be in classes with children who have been exposed to a whole lot more. Which is 100% ok, too. Kind of. As a teacher, I know how important it is that he venture out on his own. I am trying hard to cultivate the faith and trust I’ll need to let him fail, to make mistakes and get hurt, to hear and learn of things that are frightening or confusing, because I know that’s how he’ll grow strong and sure. I hope we’re building him a firm foundation, giving him a safe place to question and grow from his challenges. In the meantime, I’ll hold his hand while we watch Horton and insist he stick it through to the funny parts. I’ll peek outside as he plays in the backyard alone, lost in a world where he is the hero, building spaceships and conquering Storm Troopers. I'll nudge him to take little risks and celebrate when he succeeds, finally, after many tries. We'll take deep breaths together, going forth, knowing one day we'll be separate, but always connected. If I’m lucky, I get one hour. One hour every week just for me. If I’m disciplined and quick enough to leave school without getting caught in the net of emails and straightening up my classroom and jotting just one more thing, I get one hour.
Usually, I don’t get an hour. Today, I had to stop at the store. Usually I have to stop at the store because I can’t stand the idea of going without bananas or milk until the weekend. Today, it was cold medicine. My mom texted to let me know one, maybe both kids have a cold. I longed to drive straight home, to skip the cold medicine in hopes we had some still lurking in the cupboard somewhere, but we don’t. Colds come often enough around her there usually isn’t much left behind. By the time I got home I had maybe twenty minutes. Twenty minutes left to myself. Desperation set in. Would it be yoga? Running? Just sitting on the couch with a glass of wine or tea, reading in the quiet by myself? As I unpacked my lunch dishes I glanced out the window and noted how calm it was. There was the slightest blush just beginning to appear on the clouds. It was the magic hour before the sun set, and I wanted to be out in it. I tore off my work clothes and pulled on my running tights and a stained Yellowstone sweatshirt. I tied my shoes just right the first time, an unusual occurrence, probably borne of my desperation to get outside. Cold wind blasted my face as I trotted down the street. I hate running in the wind. I considered turning back and just doing a little yoga until my husband and kids got home. Instead, I kept going, hoping the heaviness in my legs would retreat, surprised by how out of shape I’d gotten in these past weeks of little exercise. Around the time I got to the park my legs started to loosen. A lone father and son played on the playground. A man stood in the picnic shelter, talking on his cell phone. I jogged past, picking up speed. At the light I rested for a moment, not even stretching my legs, just staring at the sky, the nightly show that I love so much. Grey and pink and blue streaked across the sky. I started my sprints then, wanting to maximize the little time I had with intervals of speed. I don’t know what I look like when I do this. I don’t care. I’ve had the privilege of standing on the side of the road as elite runners race past, and in my mind, I look like that. In reality, I realize I probably still possess the ‘classic lurching gait’ described by a previous physical therapist. It’s probably worse now, twelve years on. That’s ok. I’ll lurch all around the world if it makes me feel like this. Running intervals is tough but it makes me feel amazing. Strong. I always feel selfish when I head out for a run or lock myself in the office to do some yoga. There is so much to be done. I should be starting dinner, or folding laundry, or emptying the dishwasher. I should be… Yet I am so much kinder, so much more patient when I exercise. I struggle with anxiety daily, and exercise keeps it at bay. It’s nice to keep my body in shape, to feel attractive, but it’s even nicer to feel like I’ve got even a little bit of a handle on my mind. It keeps me from screaming at my kids in panic when they’re doing normal kid things, like plunging their hands in mud and then sucking on their fingers a few minutes later. So I squeeze in a run, which would probably be more accurately described as a slow lurching jog. As I head home the Mesa that guards the eastern edge our valley is darkening against the sky, patches of snow brilliant in the waning light. The endorphins are rolling and I smile. I feel invincible, blessed, grateful for my strong legs and beating heart and this little bit of time to call my own. When I get home I hear my son and husband in the backyard. I open the back gate and there they are, my son deep in a story of his own making, pacing around the yard and stopping to dig, build, create. My daughter is splayed out on the concrete of our patio, drawing carefully with chalk and describing it in toddler language. My husband stands watching them, still in his work clothes. We kiss hello and he heads into the house. I squeeze into the playhouse where my daughter has joined my son in his digging project. In between stretches I join them too. I’ve had my time and now it’s time to play, to make dinner, to cuddle and read books together before bed. The peace I feel after a run, even a short one, settles in. It may be selfish, but I need my hour. Yesterday was Wacky Wednesday at the school where I teach. Anyone who teaches elementary or preschool is familiar with these sorts of days: Pajama Day, Crazy Hair Day, and Hat Day, which is my personal favorite. I don’t have to wash my hair? Awesome! Fifteen extra minutes of sleep!
I have what is known as Big Hair. It’s thick, coarse and naturally curly. This type of hair takes a while to wash and gallons of product must be applied to prevent me from looking like an angry alpaca or a whitish, less attractive Diana Ross from the disco era. However, it’s perfect hair for Wacky Wednesday, when we were charged with wearing mismatched clothes and crazy hair to honor Dr. Suess, surely a man who could appreciate such things. Unfortunately, I don’t get to skip out on my other, non-work obligations when I dress up for such things. One year I too a student to the emergency room wearing sock monkey pajamas. In the middle of the day. Thankfully, this look is not unfamiliar in the emergency room. Crazy hair and mismatched socks are not the fashion of the day for the mothers at the preschool my son attends. They tend more towards expensive yoga pants or the kind of jeans not sold at Target. Or anywhere else in the midsize town where I live. All these moms are at least ten years younger than me and still care about things like fashion and having hair that’s combed. AND styled. On a daily basis. It’s taken two years to get some of these moms to say hello to me. Most of them are like me: shy and kind of in a hurry. Only a few are haughty. When I loped across the preschool parking lot in my worn Danskos with one “Adult in Training” sock and one polka-dot sock proudly on display, my normally crazy hair even crazier than usual in two huge, ratty buns that looked like they were styled by aggressive sparrows, I was not surprised to get a furtive glance from a haughty mom leaning on her Cadillac Escalade. “Are you going to yoga class?” she asked her friend whilst giving me side eye. I fantasized about waving my arm wildly in greeting and shouting, “I’d love to join you!” I thought about how much I don’t belong with many of these moms, with my awkward tendencies and advanced maternal age. I giggled to myself as I pictured their discomfort showing up in constipated smiles. I’ve always been a little on the outside, especially in this town, which is where I grew up. I don’t agree with the prevailing philosophies of many here. I spend a lot of time keeping my mouth shut. I moved away for twenty years and discovered I was a bit on the outside in other places too, even places where I do agree with the prevailing philosophies. It’s just who I am. The brilliant thing about middle age is how ok I feel about that now. Those haughty ladies in the parking lot can do their thing and I’ll do mine. They’ll smile at me eventually, even if it’s just because I look like a crazed bag lady taking her kids to school. |
Archives
March 2021
Categories |