A Slice of Sky

 

I had such a lovely afternoon today chatting with another mother. Our children played together while we talked,over delicious iced water, about our families, migrant issues, refugees and childhood memories . L is two years younger than I am, and earned simultaneous degrees in law and chemistry ,  did education work with Aboriginal peoples,  relief work in Nepal and competed in  ballroom dancing competitions.

And so, we started talking about the things we’d wanted to do in our youth, and how we’d never have imagined ourselves doing what we are doing now- being home with the children, working a little, and living lives so vastly different from what we’d expected.

And I was reminded of  a glorious poem by this woman poet called Linda Pastan: “I Married You”, where at first the reader is led to think that the poet will end with a complaint or lament over an unhappy marriage.

“I married you
for all the wrong reasons,
charmed by your
dangerous family history,
by the innocent muscles, bulging
like hidden weapons
under your shirt,
by your naive ties, the colors
of painted scraps of sunset.

I was charmed too
by your assumptions
about me: my serenity—
that mirror waiting to be cracked,
my flashy acrobatics with knives
in the kitchen.”

The surprise comes at the end, when she writes:

“How wrong we both were
about each other,
and how happy we have been.”

As we exchanged notes, L and I laughed over our youthful expectations. We laughed out of a sense of surprise, that we could say with all honesty-  that we have been happy, and that “it has been very good”.   What a shining afternoon it was.

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When I started taking up writing as a calling seriously, I looked at the situation I was in -children, family- and told myself that if I ever had to choose between doing what I love (writing) , and these iridiscent years with our young ones,  I won’t need two seconds to know which one I’d drop.  God knows, it’s not because I love writing or studying any less; but because I love my children and family beyond comparison.

I also told God, that if this was really something He was leading me into, and not some self-delusional feelings I had about myself, He’d have to enable me to work(write) in the midst of our situation.  I can’t afford weekly or even monthly retreats so that I can write, or sign up for courses- not for this season anyway. No.  God would have to enable me to find the creative spaces here, where I am- in the grease and grime of cooking, cleaning, caring, forgiving and loving.

And, I also believe, that we , as  mothers-daughters-wives, will not be diminished by the responsibilities and homeliness that we bear.  And that growing old- something I welcome with open arms- will not reduce who we are. Growing old can  enlarge our views, deepen our faith, sharpen our understanding of what it means to live, play, work and pray- if we let it.   And so, my writing, I believe , will be enriched by all this- the mess, the turning away and turning back, the struggling with fatigue, tempers, character, laundry and faith.

 

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