Out of my window, the rain is coming down steadily at a slant; there's the red-sided beauty salon/house kiddy-corner across the street, and the lopsided evergreen beside that; in the foreground the garden looks sloggy and a sick sort of green-yellow, and in the background there's the warm purplish-brown of a hill (once mountain), feathered with bare tree branches.
I'm enjoying this rainy day, though my sinuses increasingly feel they are about to explode. When I was young (I know this is ironic) but when I was young all ten years ago, I felt as though I MUST be perfectly happy all the time. I finally have gotten over that, and I'm trying to let go of more and more so I can, in a non-drug-induced manner, float out the rainy days and enjoy the process.
I tried to remind myself of this newly found zen as I mopped up the milk that Elspeth had spilled all over the floor and up the walls, and I was doing pretty well (floating along, "no use crying over. . .") when Elspeth pushed her milk-soggy foot and pants against my shoulder and into my face. Well, it is hard to retain zen when the culprit behind your work tramples you when you're already down. To her credit, she didn't mean to be frustrating, just meant to let me know that she was milk-logged. I told her, "It's okay for you to feel uncomfortable for a while." I am preaching to myself, folks.
If anything, anything in the world, will threaten your zen, it's being home with your kids. Look, people, if you think this is a piece of cake you are out to lunch in a handbasket (or something). I have heard people say they don't stay at home with their kids because they're not cut out for it, and I hear myself thinking, "Is ANYONE cut out for this?" It's the hardest work I've ever chosen for myself, but it's also probably the greatest privilege I will ever have. Knowing these two things, and knowing that I have chosen them for myself, instead of having to "buck up" like women historically have had to do under a no-choice proposition, I find my job at this moment entirely precious.
That said, my zen is sometimes threatened, especially at times of being kicked, pissed, pooped, and thrown up upon, and when my will for their lives is utterly ignored and flaunted.
But lately I am in a good space, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. This may be because I have tried to adopt a spirit of gratitude rather than of discontent; it may be because my hormones are fairly stable; it may be because I just got that grant; it may be that Beatrix is a snaggle-toothed beauty; it may be because I smell chocolate cake baking; it may be because my life seems so happy at the moment. It is in style to rant and rave about your circumstances, even if you are secretly happy. Today I will not engage in such subterfuge, even though it is raining and it is February.
Today on the way home from Giant Beagle (not the grocery store's actual name), I listened to something rather atonal on NPR, and instead of flipping it off as I am wont to do when it's Not-Bach-or-Mozart-or-Chopin, I actually gave myself a little lesson in feeling comfortable with modern, clashing music. This seemed to match my efforts toward contentment and peace in the midst of chaos, and the ride home was good for me, the music a reminder of my own journey, of being comfortable with discomfort. This doesn't mean that I wasn't happy to turn it off when I reached home.
Which reminds me to leave a note here, that I don't think every experience has to be an illustration of something else, like the woman who lived down the road from us in Kenya thought. My mother asked her to borrow some cream of tartar and when she delivered it she said, "You know, it struck me on the way over that Jesus is the cream of tartar in our lives." We have heard Jesus compared to a whole menagerie of different things, including the head of lettuce in a salad (this image almost made my father disgrace himself in church once as he imagined our King, a head of Iceburg, sitting on the great throne, presiding, I would think, over all of us carrot slices and cucumber sticks and crouton-heads). Though my mind quickly jumps to symbols and metaphor, some things just ARE.
Like children. Like Elspeth, who painted with my brand new foundation and mascara on her furniture, unloaded the clothes hamper, and spilled my coffee across the counter (all before Martin or I got out of bed!). That child just IS who she IS, and it's not all chaos and discord with her, either. She said the other day that she was sending a rainbow in an envelope to her cousin Josiah and she observed, when I turned off the water in her bath last night, that the faucet had run out of batteries. She also noted, as I bent over sopping up milk from the floor, that she could see "my naked" (I assume a version of Plumber's Butt?) Fantastic.
Keep the faith, people, keep the peace, and for heaven's sake, don't plug along just because it's in style. Do a little boogy-woogy here and there. Especially in February.
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