Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The treadmill

Every morning, I get up, make coffee, and write in my journal while my kids watch hours of  a little TV.

I need this time. I deserve this time. I believe that this is important. I know that my day is better when I do it.

And it doesn't matter what I write. I give myself permission to write the worst garbage in the world.

But eventually, the idea is, I won't. I'll break through. I'll hit some piece of wisdom, some deeper level. I'll find the heart of the piece.

It hasn't been working that way.

I put in the time. And I sit with my notebook. I show up. But the heart of the piece doesn't.

I'm disappointed. I'm frustrated. I'm discouraged. I thought by now, by November 4th, I'd have broken through. I'd have something to say. I'd have moved past this writing about writing.

I haven't.

The lovely Anne Marie made a comment today about how not getting anywhere sounds like mothering. And she's right. It's the treadmill, waking up every day to the same laundry, the same dishes, the same discipline I did the day before. I show up. I do the work. But I don't get anywhere.

My little girls are watching me. And as much as sometimes I wish they wouldn't turn into me, I know they will.

So what me do I want them to be?

I want them to read. I want them to be kind. I want them to show up.

So, I guess it matters. I guess we're all actually getting somewhere together.


  1. Oh my heart. This reminds me of the myth of Sisyphus. We get up every day, and we roll the rock up the hill. Then it rolls back down. Mothering is so very much like this.