There is just so much to do, so much to accomplish, so much to set in order. Running a household involves a million little details, being a wife has two million more hidden in the folds of everyday life, and being a mom has a double the sum of all three!
It is easy to get frustrated, to feel so sectioned – running from one end of the line to the other, across all that you already are and all that you still have/want to be. Every day, a woman wakes up and she has all these shoes to fill – daughter, mother, wife, friend, employer, employee, sister, tutor, storyteller, homemaker. In between all this are many other bit roles that just naturally turn up as the daily grind rolls on. And like a juggling act, she will rise to the challenge, tossing the balls one after the other, keeping afloat. She absorbs just a little bit more, says yes to just one more chore, one more task, until she realizes all she ever really will accomplish are but bits and pieces of the many errands she set out to do. At the end of the day, everything is essentially still a work in progress – as it was yesterday, as it most probably will be tomorrow.
It is like moving into a new house. I know of someone who has beautifully conquered the ominous task of moving in, her approach is so methodical that she has it down to an art. She does it one area at a time. Today she will be in her old house emptying out her kitchen and dining area, putting everything in boxes. Tomorrow she will transport those boxes to her new house, take out everything they hold and position them in their new places. She then moves on to another area of the house to conquer. In effect she makes progress by concentrating on one area at a time.
It is not always so in real life. Real life as we know it is not a motionless empty space waiting to be filled in our own sweet time. A woman cannot wake up one day and just choose to be a mom the first hour, an employer the next, a wife the rest of the day. She has to simultaneously be all that plus more. Always, reality is like a drill, calling the lady to rise to its shifting commands in half-a-shake.
We see how each role brings out fragments of her personality, as her life and circumstance have shaped it. When pondered upon, these very same experiences bring her back deep into herself, to the very heart of who she is. A sum of her past, her present, and the hopes she harbors for her future, shape the decisions she makes each day.
I wonder how the women of old did it. They did everything the crude, old-fashioned way but still they emerged in one piece. Tired, maybe, and perhaps a bit frazzled, but with a spirit whole and intact. I wonder where and how they found time alone to recharge. Our generation is not without the comforts of technology, yet the pressure seems even greater, the multiplicity looms larger. Because things are made more comfortable for us, more manageable, we naturally feel we can/must take on more.
It is no joke being a woman. There is this balancing act that we unconditionally embrace. As if it were de riguer, we scoop everything up, often mindlessly but always joyfully, with all that we are, all that we have. We do not hold on to any bargaining chips, we just give as we go along, baring our hearts, pouring much of ourselves into the lives of the people who matter most to us.
Where does this come from, this desire to heal all that is broken around us, to repair whatever is fragmented, to gather all that has been scattered, to tighten all that has come loose? It is a trait that is home to practically all the women we know in our lives.
But the juggler cannot waste precious time questioning. She simply must go on and on, lest one of the balls drop. Priceless, it is an act that can only be fueled by love. Yes, she longs for some quiet time. But it is not meant to be hers – not just yet. Until that happens, she delights in the intrinsic joy that comes from giving herself to those she loves, concurrently keeping her arms wide open to welcome downtime.
Often it will crop up unexpectedly – while the child sleeps, the husband is at work, in the still of the night, or in the silence in the car while stuck in traffic. In trickles, maybe, but the fact that it does happen at all is one more thing to be happy about.
It is a breezy afternoon and I look to the spot where our Christmas tree used to be. The tree is no longer there but the gifts still are, unopened, waiting for me to find them. I only have 30 minutes before rushing off to class but here is a little private time. I open one gift gently, putting away both the pretty wrapper and ribbon with care. The present is beautiful, thoughtful. It is a cluster of many handmade little things, it has a theme, it tells a story. I read the warm note that comes with it. I feel blessed.
Thank heavens for small niceties in everyday spaces. And I thank Him for the grace of stolen moments that allow for some quiet time, even if it is brief, and strangely beautiful as Christmas in February.