A writing from this past March:
I had a really profound morning.
The theme running through my head this a.m. was around how
our weekdays really don’t have much, if any, time for fun, relaxation and
play. Mornings and usually rushed and
filled with “Go get ready – Go Get Ready” at varying degrees of aggravation and
heartbreak, as two night owls try to get everything done and out the door for
the morning bus.
The three hours we get in the evening don’t feel like enough
time for preparing dinner, doing homework, bath and bedtime, not including time
for my daughter to practice her piano or try to master her cartwheel. More nights than not, we are late for bedtime
or are at least skipping reading time.
After her bedtime, I find myself just as stressed – pressuring
myself to be more productive around the house, more proactive at moving forward
projects and activities that allow me to express my passions and creativity, to
read for fun (an activity I do not get enough of and sorely miss) and to allow
myself some time to just unwind with a favorite TV show.
This is our lives between Monday and Thursday and I hate
it. Tears run down my face as I write
about it, shame and feelings of failure overwhelm me as this is not the life I
want for my daughter and me.
So this a.m., I ponder an invitation to dinner, not wanting
to relinquish our Friday evening ritual of pizza and a movie, but feeling
weighed down by a lifetime of maternal guilt that I MUST accept every
invitation with my extended family.
In my mind, I can hear the guilt trip from my mother if I
decline the invite. I can hear my inner
voice protesting. I feel like I am a
disappointment to my family. I physically feel the pressure in my chest
from the conflict.
Our new morning plan gets us out the door early – something
that rarely happens. As we sit in the
car at the bus stop, I take advantage of the few moments to clean the inside of
the windshield, which has been bugging
me for weeks.
My daughter asks, “Isn’t there something else we can do at
this time rather than cleaning the windows?”
I think of Rachel Macy Stafford, the Hands Free Mama, who
would use those moments to connect with her child, to look into her eyes, to
appreciate the sunshine before the next cold snap. I again feel like a failure.
Daughter entrusted to the bus driver, I start my rushed
commute into work. I have barely enough
time between bus pick up and after school closing to get in an 8 hour day and I
have created a commute that depends on every back-road short-cut I can
find.
As I drive, I am aware of the heaviness in my chest. I try breathing, with minimal relief. It strikes me that I am living in such a
state of stress and anxiety that I am no longer able to decompress. I truly think my body has forgotten how. And that is both unbearably sad and
terrifying as I consider the implications.
Within moments of this realization striking, I round a bend
and find myself 3rd in line behind a garbage truck on a long and
winding residential street. With one
lane in each direction, it is the kind of street that makes it treacherous to
pass a large truck. I hope that it will
pull over into the bike and parking lanes when it reaches the next set of
cans. But it doesn’t.
Then I notice that those cans are empty. As are the next set. And the next.
Traveling at 15 miles per hour is NOT part of my morning
schedule. I don’t have time for 15 miles
an hour.
For the love of God, I think. If you aren’t actually picking up trash, let
the two guys on the back into the cab so you can go the freaking speed limit!
The truck lumbers on.
It wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things – maybe a third- to a
half-mile at most. It felt long. I checked the clock – damn – I don’t have
time for this!!!
We round another bend towards a side street. I know that if scoot into the parking lane,
turn onto that side street and push the envelope a bit, I can come out the
other side and beat the truck. Before I
can get into position, the truck takes the turn instead.
As the cars in front of me pick up speed, there is a split
second of realization. In the moment
before my own foot depresses the gas pedal, I feel it. I feel the peace and relaxation in my body. I feel it because I feel my own body
accelerate from relaxation to stress at the same rate as my car. In the same moment I am able to recognize and savor the feeling, I have lost it, and am heartbroken at its loss.
Without my even realizing it was occurring, those few
minutes at 15 minutes an hour brought my body back into a peaceful state. I felt the power of going slow.
When I arrived at work, several minutes late as usual, I
figured, what’s another minute or two at this point? Foregoing my usual purposeful, deliberate and
hurried gait, I deliberately strolled from the far end of the parking lot into
my office. A co-worker passed me by,
but stopped to hold the door for me.
At the top of the steps, I was able to greet our
receptionist with a cheerful “Good Morning” instead of
my usual grumbles about the end of the day.
I exchanged pleasantries with them and my co-worker about the joy of
Fridays and appreciation for a cold but sunny day after a miserable snowing
winter.
As I waited for my over-worked laptop to boot up, I did some
neck rolls, feeling tension drain out of my body, instead of my usual, “come
on, come on, come on” pressure, anxious to get to that first email, stressed
about proving my worth.
Nothing really changed this morning and yet everything did.
