For so many things.
I watched my rotund eleven-month-old fall asleep in my arms today, punch-drunk on applesauce, oatmeal, banana chunks and breastmilk, and I thought about mothers the world over who hold too-light children and too-heavy worries.
I keep picking at the irritating scab of a search committee that doesn’t respond…and then remember how good it feels to even HAVE interviews, in this climate, and to have warm, supportive ones at that.
I am frustrated to not have more time to write, and I am reminded of the years when writing was work. This, then, is play.
In one of my gardens I grow roses, all carefully chosen for cold-hardiness and disease resistance; it’s every plant for himself at our house. When I think of the winterkill that mauled them last year and of my half-assed attempts to prune, heal, transplant, and protect them anew, I must also remember this: come June, whether I deserve it or not, there is usually grace. Come to think of it, I depend on grace. I build it into my strategy. The flowers, though, are a glorious bonus.
I once had to write down, every day, ten things that were beautiful or inspiring or somehow positive, and by god it was a struggle. But, as Thich Nhat Hahn says, “peace is every step” and compassion (with self, with world) is a habit. In these dark days, it’s a habit worth cultivating.