on anonymous revolutions
All my students called in sick. At eleven this morning I found one in my bed, one on the couch, and only one in the bed where she began the night. Two new fevers and one gone, so that's how today is going to be. The couch is currently layered with towels and blankets and children. School is cancelled, today we rest. In other news, half of October has been marked by sickness in our home.
Two weeks of sickness means we've accomplished little more than some school work and survival cleaning of our house. It is not a representation of my life. It is just today. It is the task before me and I am invited to journey away from my romantic idealism and be in the present with congested faces and sleepy kids. While sick kids watch movies, I have the chance to write.
On an episode of Madame Secretary, the speech writer was given a chance to read one of his own speeches, it began like this, "Accomplishment is often anonymous." This line has stayed with me. I can't help but wonder, if we're so exhausted trying to get recognition for every single thing we do in our ordinary lives and that maybe, we're hardly surviving. It's the lifelong plight of the artist, and surely the reason so many have gone crazy. We are pushed to create for the success of the thing and not for the act of creating, not for the art of living. Our society has placed this expectation on mothers, too. As if every day should be perfectly organized, 100% hustle, and Norman Rockwell-esque or else we are not enough. I dare say, we are not failing our people if we fail to meet the contrived expectations of society.
The actual work of motherhood is messy, loud, and emotional. Someone said, "Everyone wants a revolution, but no one wants to wash the dishes." Truthfully, I hate washing dishes, I love revolutions, but go a few meals without cleaning the kitchen and things get really dangerous. Sure, revolutions are an amazing accomplishment, but a clean kitchen is too-- just ask a parent. Parenting is the managing of one million anonymous things, because love is notoriously about giving.
Last month, I met a new friend who wondered if she was homeschooling because it looks so romantic online? I laughed. I told her that it never feels romantic to me. My homeschooling is not filled with the grace of seamless hours of nature journaling and kids who only want to read books. We have our own rhythm, but it's no ballet. It looks like sticking to structure for a decent amount of time. It sometimes feels like pulling teeth. It's not giving up when we'd rather give up. It's not quitting when things are hard. It's enjoying the subjects we like and embracing the ones we don't. It's ten thousand cheerios on the floor from breakfast, lots of breaks, and lots of patience.
At the same time, it's freedom to read fifteen books after a trip to the library or turning muffins into a baking lesson. It's organizing, categorizing, and counting hot wheels and creating stories from favorite toys. It's little artists filling sketchbooks. It's reading beautiful stories that will never leave us. It's considering that history is full of our hot-mess humanity and believing that we can try harder. This freedom and this space to learn is beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful, but it's still not romantic. It's hard-earned goodness.
Recently, I was perusing a cookbook, after a visit to the library. From where I sat, I could see everyone reading, but none of us were in the same room. One was listening to an audio book and drawing at her desk. One was "reading" in the hallway. One was using a new Lego book to build in his room. Homeschooling romanticizes the idea of togetherness. The truth is, after being around each other all day, I just want to be alone. So, when lunch things are cleaned and the last of the afternoon lessons are done, it's quiet time. This means video games or a movie or playing outside or in your room; it means, I hide with a book or paint in the kitchen or watch my own show. Since my youngest is three, I have this luxury. I see my friends with babies and I know this is not to be taken for granted.
For a while, I wondered if we were wasting that time, if we weren't making the most of these hours, but we've spent the entire day connecting, engaging, and ahem, "encouraging." We are all better for being still and knowing how to entertain ourselves, of this I am certain. The alternative would suffocate everyone, namely me.
Whether my parents meant to or not, they gave us freedom and independence. I know this was a gift, that I dare to weave into the souls of my own kids. This is what they will carry into adulthood, this is what will shape them. I can never be everything to them. Alone doesn't mean lonely. Quiet is not a misuse of time, it is the grace that sustains us.
As sure as seasons shift, I know the task before me is enough. I'm lucky to finish one painting a week, to write one decent bit of writing. Today, I will fill cups of water and make toast. I will kiss warm foreheads and turn on movies. I will discuss Frozen at length. I will feed hungry people and wash the dishes. I will sit with my husband at the end of the day. Does this count as nothing? Hardly.
Madeleine L'Engle wrote in A Circle of Quiet, that most of her best writing happened after the intense mothering years. I remember this over and over, when I wonder what in the world I'm doing and I feel all the angst of my romantic idealism battling the very realism of life. The thing we are doing is important, enduring, and often anonymous. It's not romantic or picture perfect. We call it ordinary, but as Joan Didion wrote, "We still counted happiness and health and love and luck and beautiful children as "ordinary blessings.”
Two weeks of sickness means we've accomplished little more than some school work and survival cleaning of our house. It is not a representation of my life. It is just today. It is the task before me and I am invited to journey away from my romantic idealism and be in the present with congested faces and sleepy kids. While sick kids watch movies, I have the chance to write.
On an episode of Madame Secretary, the speech writer was given a chance to read one of his own speeches, it began like this, "Accomplishment is often anonymous." This line has stayed with me. I can't help but wonder, if we're so exhausted trying to get recognition for every single thing we do in our ordinary lives and that maybe, we're hardly surviving. It's the lifelong plight of the artist, and surely the reason so many have gone crazy. We are pushed to create for the success of the thing and not for the act of creating, not for the art of living. Our society has placed this expectation on mothers, too. As if every day should be perfectly organized, 100% hustle, and Norman Rockwell-esque or else we are not enough. I dare say, we are not failing our people if we fail to meet the contrived expectations of society.
The actual work of motherhood is messy, loud, and emotional. Someone said, "Everyone wants a revolution, but no one wants to wash the dishes." Truthfully, I hate washing dishes, I love revolutions, but go a few meals without cleaning the kitchen and things get really dangerous. Sure, revolutions are an amazing accomplishment, but a clean kitchen is too-- just ask a parent. Parenting is the managing of one million anonymous things, because love is notoriously about giving.
Last month, I met a new friend who wondered if she was homeschooling because it looks so romantic online? I laughed. I told her that it never feels romantic to me. My homeschooling is not filled with the grace of seamless hours of nature journaling and kids who only want to read books. We have our own rhythm, but it's no ballet. It looks like sticking to structure for a decent amount of time. It sometimes feels like pulling teeth. It's not giving up when we'd rather give up. It's not quitting when things are hard. It's enjoying the subjects we like and embracing the ones we don't. It's ten thousand cheerios on the floor from breakfast, lots of breaks, and lots of patience.
At the same time, it's freedom to read fifteen books after a trip to the library or turning muffins into a baking lesson. It's organizing, categorizing, and counting hot wheels and creating stories from favorite toys. It's little artists filling sketchbooks. It's reading beautiful stories that will never leave us. It's considering that history is full of our hot-mess humanity and believing that we can try harder. This freedom and this space to learn is beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful, but it's still not romantic. It's hard-earned goodness.
Recently, I was perusing a cookbook, after a visit to the library. From where I sat, I could see everyone reading, but none of us were in the same room. One was listening to an audio book and drawing at her desk. One was "reading" in the hallway. One was using a new Lego book to build in his room. Homeschooling romanticizes the idea of togetherness. The truth is, after being around each other all day, I just want to be alone. So, when lunch things are cleaned and the last of the afternoon lessons are done, it's quiet time. This means video games or a movie or playing outside or in your room; it means, I hide with a book or paint in the kitchen or watch my own show. Since my youngest is three, I have this luxury. I see my friends with babies and I know this is not to be taken for granted.
For a while, I wondered if we were wasting that time, if we weren't making the most of these hours, but we've spent the entire day connecting, engaging, and ahem, "encouraging." We are all better for being still and knowing how to entertain ourselves, of this I am certain. The alternative would suffocate everyone, namely me.
Whether my parents meant to or not, they gave us freedom and independence. I know this was a gift, that I dare to weave into the souls of my own kids. This is what they will carry into adulthood, this is what will shape them. I can never be everything to them. Alone doesn't mean lonely. Quiet is not a misuse of time, it is the grace that sustains us.
As sure as seasons shift, I know the task before me is enough. I'm lucky to finish one painting a week, to write one decent bit of writing. Today, I will fill cups of water and make toast. I will kiss warm foreheads and turn on movies. I will discuss Frozen at length. I will feed hungry people and wash the dishes. I will sit with my husband at the end of the day. Does this count as nothing? Hardly.
Madeleine L'Engle wrote in A Circle of Quiet, that most of her best writing happened after the intense mothering years. I remember this over and over, when I wonder what in the world I'm doing and I feel all the angst of my romantic idealism battling the very realism of life. The thing we are doing is important, enduring, and often anonymous. It's not romantic or picture perfect. We call it ordinary, but as Joan Didion wrote, "We still counted happiness and health and love and luck and beautiful children as "ordinary blessings.”
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