Grace on the kitchen floor
So this thing happened back on that first Monday in January, and I wrote about it. Though I was writing in response to a prompt from my teacher (prompt: "Everything in disarray"), it felt more like a much-needed diary entry. I figured I'd share it with my writing group but that it would never see the light of day.
I changed my mind. And in case you find yourself needing grace, too, I thought I'd share.
💌
Out of nowhere, I start to cry. Which is strange, because I am not a cryer. A sentimental sap at sad movies? Yes. A sucker for a sweet laundry soap ad? Sure. But otherwise, I tend to keep a pretty tight lid on my tears. Which is also strange given that part of what I love most is helping other people find and express their own feelings.
But holding it together is what I do best. Keeping the family on track, the calendar organized, the meals coming, one after another, day after day is part of my survival mechanism. It’s not a one-up-man-ship game I play, it’s not for comparison’s sake that I do this, I could give two sh*ts about the Jones’. (If you know me well, you know I LOVE my neighbors!). It's just that holding it together keeps me from falling apart.
I’ve learned this about myself in the pandemic.
But three days into the new year, with an immediacy that grips me, I have to stop and give myself grace on the kitchen floor.
Maybe it’s because Brandie Carlisle’s songThe Motheris playing on the speakers. A most beautiful ode to her daughter Evangeline, and to motherhood itself, and the choices we make and the things we must let go of when we choose this role.
Maybe it's because the lyrics make me feel seen. Like I have permission to fall to pieces on the floor amidst the crumbs I haven't bothered to sweep all week.This particular morning in my kitchen, the line “tethered to another and worried all the time,” strikes me in a most profound way.
Maybe it’s because our school district has just called off school for the next two weeks and directed us back to virtual learning and I am already exhausted after the holiday break with my three young kids and their incessant demands.
Maybe it’s because my phone pings with a Mary Oliver poem from my mother about newly hatched redbird chicks who are chirping for food and who just keep shouting ‘More! More!,’ before they’ve even opened their eyes and I want to shout: TRUTH.
Maybe it’s because I know I need to get the food shopping finished for the week and I can’t stand a single thing in our rotation any longer. And yet, the chicks keep peeping, More! More! More!
Keeping other humans alive is hard and sometimes overwhelming.
The clock in front of me on the oven tells me I have about 45 minutes to pick myself up off the floor. I take a minute to let the tears fall, the sun warm on my face. They aren’t loud ugly tears, or even guttural sobs. Just the silent kind that slip down my nose between long, jagged inhales, running into my mouth where I can taste the saltiness of this moment.
Gathering my breath, I refill my coffee, my third cup of the day, sink back to the floor and close my eyes. The sun only shines through the kitchen window at the back of our house for a hot minute before it passes over the roofline and right now, in this moment, it is all mine.
💌
Lest you think I am only about creating joy filled e-courses and retreats, I thought I’d also share this part as well. Because we don’t have to be either/OR. That’s the beauty of life, we get to be both/AND.
Thank goodness for that.
May you find grace on the kitchen floor this week if you need it!
