Well, today was the sharp pinch finishing off my dreamlike weekend.

Did I mention that I like quiet?

Sometimes it is so loud.

I spent it all this weekend. Everything I had. My body’s tired. I’m overstimulated with artistic input. All I want to do is crawl into a dark cave and rest my overexerted five senses.

But I have three children.

And today was band practice day. So, instead, I listened to the new hit song, “Baby in a Rainbow” with my son accompanying on lap harp-

–on repeat.

Maintaining house amid boxes while still missing important pieces of furniture is difficult. It’s taking more time from my day than I would like. I’ve been away from my keyboard, too much to process and not enough processing.

I can’t quite reconcile this part of me with motherhood. Perhaps no mother can. Perhaps motherhood has done this to all of us. But, now, whatever the reason, every night I have to do this:

As soon as they’re all in bed I sit down in the dim nearly-dark at my computer. The first thing I do is mute my computer and turn the ringer off on my phone. Then I dim the brightness down on both until they are as low as they can go. Then I sit alone and “ride the day down into night”.

It is almost night now. I have the windows open to let in the ten degree drop that always happens in San Francisco at this time of day. There is a line of faint yellow light enunciating the unromantic silhouette of the apartment building across the courtyard. I can see through my kitchen window the light in the bedroom of our neighbor unit has been turned on. Since my kitchen window is open I can hear the movie they are watching. The baby fusses a few more times and then grows quiet. I take a deep breath. I hear a curse word from the movie, the distant problem of someone facing what could only appear, to him in that moment, to be reality. I still smell the chili I made for dinner, which reminds me of the jobs left to do for the day: bring up the load I left in the dryer, put away the leftovers, do the dishes.

If things you experience become forever a part of who you are then right now I feel a little like Velcro with smothering layers dangling, hanging on by odd threads. And now in the dim I must be still and go deep and meet myself for a moment in the middle. I will be still here for a bit longer and listen for a foghorn, maybe, letting the layers settle gently and a little firmer into my being.

How I wish I could pause on occasion like my computer and allow things to load.

Processing, processing.

5 responses »

  1. mmmm… somehow this was so soothing for me to read. Like a bedtime story. Like an interesting people watching part of a movie where everything is OK, and everything is going to be OK. Where you get to peek in on other’s lives and see how they live and what they smell and here and do, and life just goes on. It perpetuates. It can’t stop. Sometimes that reality is overwhelming and crushing. Sometimes it is encouraging. And the ten degree drop and a foghorn… I can picture it all. I feel right there, too. A gift to the senses. An invitation to participate in life, and yet detach from the weight of it. BTW, thank goodness your reply box has spell check. Otherwise, I’d be too insecure to comment.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s