Schmilly has been working hard: six-days-a-week hard.
Thus I have been working hard, too.
Smurfing very VERY hard, my little Smurfs.
We are both ringed in grey but every day we get up lucky.
We go to bed lucky.
We show up and man/woman up even if we're bleary-eyed with coffee iv drips.
We've got grit and grit'll polish you right shiny, I trust this.
I recall work 'sprints' or 'crunches' that Anthony had through our eight-plus years together
and I remember more bickering and short fuses... it's so amazing how having a child
and parenting them just entails sacrifice so constantly that you cease to think of it at all,
and some things like the energy for arguing and making-up are funneled into care and teamwork
in a really powerful way.
We are more gentle
and things are funnier
and the jokes are older
and that man just keeps getting more handsome with the passing years
so really, how could I help but flirt and cradle?
We know that the game he's working on is coming into a new phase soon-ish, one that means
the weekends will eventually once again be our own
and there is a light at the end of the schedule-tunnel.
I remember when I was still a receptionist wishing and praying for so much more
someone wise told me that if I wanted to let something go, I had to love it first.
I did that. I treated guests like queens and fellow employees with love.
I appreciated the free coffee and internet access.
I answered the phones like every caller was my own mama.
I faked it until I made it if I had to:
Eventually I truly cared.
So about a month ago when the pressure and stress of wearing all these rad hats became so intense that I thought it might crush my spirit
I blessedly remembered those sage words of advice.
I have allowed myself to be less of a diligent friend. Lovingly.
Emails take longer.
I have permitted myself to sit still more with O, less inclined to romp and please in this time of energy depletion.
I have, as always, gone to the studio and found it to be a balm. That never changes.
My expectations are more realistic in terms of what there is time for
and how to breathe into the hours differently
so that they feel more rich with possibility
and when I'm like, "Fuck it"
I call my mom
and she tells me wonderful things
and makes my frailties feel less brittle.
I've counted my blessings and they are many.
I've said secret prayers for the drivers with whom I share the road, even (and maybe especially) the ones who put others at risk in their haste.
The house is less tidy.
The garden is a place where weeds have longer occupancy: you're welcome, dandelions.
The car is looking like we live in Death Valley, all caked with dust.
All loved, all of these things.
When life goes back to having more room for wiggling
I hope to look back on this time and think fondly
about how much was let go
in favor of sanity and care.
That I sat on the old bench in the back yard with O around sunset
and caught the bubbles he blew instead of dusting the Havisham cobwebs from the mud room.
That I asked for help when I needed it
and was loved enough to receive.
That I came down hard on nothing
and let the fire get a little low:
you can do that in the summer
and the sun'll take up the slack.
That I had the tattoo consultation.
Every morning's sunrise
can be the light at the end of the tunnel
you're still slogging through
when you love that long dark dank
place enough to know
it has a gift for you
even if you cannot hold it yet...
just love it
in a real and true way
and feel the resistance