Just yesterday a friend shared these words from a poem entitled “What Brings You to the Next Morning” by Maya Stein
“…you heave your weariness from the room
gather your limbs to the center,and rise.
Tell me what keeps you from plummeting backward…”
I often find myself feeling guilty about being home; like I don’t deserve such decadence unless I spend my days keeping the house clean, putting a wholesome dinner on the table and slaving away at the never-ending list of tedious tasks. I feel guilty that I can’t seem to drag myself back onto the cloth diaper wagon. I feel guilty when I let Poppy watch movies because it is just so damned nice to have a break. I feel guilty when I ask Mike to entertain the kids when he comes home from his own long day so I can have a bubble bath. I feel guilty when I put the clothes in the dryer. I feel guilty when I take time for myself, but I know that if I want to survive motherhood and homeschooling that is one hurdle I must leave behind.
And then I read this post at beauty that moves. It has given me a much needed new perspective on my “job” and “salary”. I don’t need to say much more than to suggest you read it yourself and start carving out a “salary” for yourself.
I have many ideals and ideas of what our days should hold. I am constantly inspired. So inspired, it would seem, that I have become paralyzed. I know I should rise with the birds and run. I know I should rise with the mist and center myself on a yoga mat. I know I should creep down the stairs when the wild things slumber to devour a book and some tea. I know I should write it out. I know I must be kind and generous to myself so that I may be the same towards my family.
And these are the ideals, thoughts and people which will bring me to the next morning; the things that will bring me to gather my limbs to center and rise again.
go gently & be wonderful
p.s. “How To Start Over” by Maya Stein
resist the temptation to wipe the slate clean entirely.
you cannot do this.
you are where you are.
but you can dust. you can mop. you can cleanse your belly
of all the heavy cheeses you ate at last month’s holiday parties.
you can initiate the day with decaf.
you can rake four batches of leaves from the lawn.
you can sing, loudly, in the car to no one
but the man on the radio who is singing with you.
you can decide that the apple pie you are craving
will not come from your hands, your oven, your kitchen,
but from the bakery aisle at your neighborhood grocery.
ignore the titles from the self-help shelves and glossy
women’s magazines, with their sound bytes of colorful insight.
you do not need a makeover, a diet, a religious conversion.
you do not need to get more in touch with your feelings.
you do not need potassium, or St. John’s Wort, or a colonic.
you need a walk, communion with shore birds, a rainstorm,
a glass of wine in front of a fire, lip gloss, a whole evening
of the novel you read only incrementally, at night, before bed.
ignore the calendar, the clock, the larger itineraries
ticking their niggling bits of time.
you will sleep when you need to.
you will know when it is time for water, for a shower,
for a phone call, for a kiss, for solitude, for Indian food,
whatever nourishment you need for your throat, your ears,
the palms of your hands, the hunger just under your skin.
imagine, despite your unbearable faults and fissures,
you are still a thing of beauty, a rare creature, a snowflake,
a singular, spectacular atom circumnavigating the tangled astronomy