Light or dark? Coffee or tea? Sun or shadows? Black or white? All or nothing? There's this thing called balance that I'm not sure quite exists. It's an elusive white rabbit, like a clean house and an influencer's promise that "xyz will change your life!"
I'm wading between seasons. Spring is coming, winter is folding in and closing the door. I'm in the middle of seeding and planting my garden. I'm in the middle of multiple WIPs at varying stages. I’m in the middle of mothering the at home years. I’m in that season of school where we can see the end of the year (and all the events it brings), but it's not quite within grasp.
I feel a bit like Alexander Hamilton, "Why do you write like you're running out of time?" Except I'm not quite writing like that, but living...yes? There's much to do. Children to homeschool. Meals to cook. A garden to weed and plant. Trips to plan. Trips to take. Bodies to move (mine...not the Earl kind.) Meals to plan. Groceries to shop for. Meals to cook.
Children to listen to. A husband to spend time with. Sickness to recover from (or wait for). Clothes to fold. Clothes to sew. Things to sell. Things to get rid of. Walks to take. Physical therapy to do. Shows to watch. Books to read. Friends to call. Plans to make. Sleep to be had. Things to worry about, things to let go of.
It's easy to say let some things go or die, to know which are glass balls and which are plastic. It's easy to say those things as if they're black and white, always obvious. But what if they’re not?
I spent so many years putting everyone else first. Doing all the serving, making sure everyone else was provided for, that everything was thought out and each turn expected and planned for accordingly. I would get to my work, my needs, my dreams when everyone and everything else was taken care of. (Are we surprised that was rarely?)
Still, even now when I’ve routines, boundaries, and expectations in place, it's my work, my care, my desires that go first when there's something to be done. Some will say, especially in the Christian circles, that’s the goal and way of woman. Her highest and greatest calling, to sacrifice herself on the altar of serving family and community. (What they don’t say is she will also be an exhausted, spent, anxious, depressed, a shell of a person, and that there is a steep toll for giving and, rarely ever, receiving. But that’s another story, for another time.)
I'm fighting, not just the seasons, but a new way of being with the old and trying to find that elusive white rabbit between.
Am I a glass or plastic ball?
Is my work a glass or plastic ball?
(I kind of hate that analogy…and the one about rocks, “Just put in the biggest rocks first.” We oversimplify too much for the sake of making life more palatable.)
How do I adjust and continue moving forward with the ever changing and always demanding aspects of motherhood, the soul + spirit care and feeding of children, and managing a household while being my own person?
How do I adjust and continue moving forward while I'm still hyperaware of everything I use to do and the potential of lingering expectations that I should still do all the things? That’s what I fear, that people are watching, measuring, and disappointed. (Should I care? No. But that doesn’t make it easy to get over.)
I carry this internal pressure that I still should be doing those things. That it is still somehow all up to me, to care for myself, invest in my work, and make sure house and home, family and relationships are running well.
I’ve had people tell me “I don’t know how you do so much. You’re Superwoman.” No, I’m not. I’m exhausted. The majority of what I do is taking care of the necessary, the rest is tending to my own interests and dreams. I’m hyperaware—of what is unfinished and my deficiencies—all the time. I’ve got multiple to do lists constantly running behind my eyes. My life is a tangle of spiderwebs; some in color, others in black and white, some pulsating with music.
Oh, yes, people will talk about letting things go, splitting the load (we do that too and are, giving my current whirlwind, reassessing)…that’s well and good until a 5pm meeting gets put on the books and an accident means an hour of traffic and dinner still has to be cooked.
An Aside: While writing this I’m also having the slow realization that the last four pandemic years my husband had the privilege of working mostly from home, which gave us a lot of flexibility in errands, starting meals, kid meltdowns, switching laundry, and pick-ups while coinciding with the increase of my writing. We’re five months in to him being in the office 3+ days a week and it’s only now fully registering how much I bear the burden. I reckon this “woe is me” detour makes sense.
Even that well-intentioned advice of splitting the load is at the mercy of the uncontrollable. Maybe that’s part of my frustration. Maybe this would all be easier if it could be controlled, if the issue of time was solved by an idealistic and uninterrupted bulleted list and a positive affirmation.
The basic plate to keep people alive and well and educated is a full plate, add in caring for my own body and soul, trying to maintain some relationships, and pursue writing—I’m exhausted.
The question between all this is, What do I sacrifice? My well being, my dreams, my needs? Or others’? Does it have to be one or the other?
I want a life that flows with the seasons. That has tea in the morning and predictability in the afternoon. A life with breathing room, where I can sit in the sun or go for a walk or school lessons can take the time they need to take without a ticking clock of the next thing speedily approaching.
But I’m in a season where that’s not possible. My life is full. It’s probably a bit like my garden. Bulbs and seeds planted one on top of each other, their exact matrix hidden in the dirt. For now, it’s all dark soil. One day it’ll bloom, but right now it’s a murky mess.
If this was a proper modern essay, it would wrap up with how lessons are learned and I can see the joy and blessing in this season and it makes me glad or some other mumble jumbo. But there’s not a tidy answer for everything.
Sometimes life is just frustrating. Sometimes (all the time?) there’s not one surefire, 100% reliable way to do this life, to care for yourself and your people where everyone gets what they need. Sometimes you just have to live through it without all the answers, without the perfect plan of the way things should go. Sometimes needs don’t get met and people are disappointed. Sometimes you stay up late and sometimes you go to bed early.
Sometimes balls are just balls and everything is gray.
Maybe that’s the messy lesson. Living the between there isn’t turn by turn directions, just an old road map with softened edges and coffee stains and a white rabbit to follow with a hope and a prayer that this next turn might lead you there.
