Because You Too Are Thirsty

"I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand because life is short and you too are thirsty."
Adrienne Rich, An Atlas of the Difficult World

I studied poetry in college, way back in my 20s, when I thought I was busy. I had projects and deadlines and work and other commitments. At any point in time, I could choose, and often did, one task over another, one commitment instead of another, because I was too busy to fit everything in. Of course, there were consequences, like a bad grade on a paper when I waited to write it until the very last minute or a missed lecture when I chose to catch up at work instead of going to class. The consequences seemed big at the time.

Later, I was busy in my professional life, too. Taking on projects, staying ahead of deadlines, adding more responsibilities to an already long list. The consequences when I messed up and missed a deadline or made a mistake were significant, sometimes even scary.

But I had no clue as to what busy meant until I had children and the consequences of my choices grew to huge proportions. I could choose to skip dinner, like I’d often do in the past when my schedule became overwhelming, but the consequence would be that my milk supply would go down and my breastfeeding son would pay the price.

I could chose to not get up when my son cried at night – and oftentimes wanted to – but the consequences for having my son cry it out were so great. Again, not for me, but for him.

I had to redefine busy. Busy was no longer defined by how many obligations were on my plate. Busy was my inability to make choices of how I spent my time because the consequences of my decisions would be too great for someone else.

With this operating system in place, I worked hard at caring for my children, running my household and business, holding my marriage together with what felt like the equivalent of safety pins and Scotch tape.

I grew resentful. Fell apart bit by bit. I had set up an equation that wasn’t sustainable but I couldn’t figure out how to solve the problem. There was no way to balance the life I led with the life I wanted. My schedule included too much math: too many responsibilities added in, too many of my desires subtracted, too many charts I created to see where I could fit a little bit of me back in.

I had to go back to square one and start from scratch. What did I love in the beginning? Before the kids came. Before busy became a religion I couldn’t leave? And how could I fit little pieces of those loves into the integers of my life now?

I started swinging on the swings when I took my kids to the park, instead of only pushing the boys. I collected books from the grown up sections of the library instead of staying only in the children’s area and parenting shelves. I found my books of poetry from my childfree life and started reading again: Sharon Olds, Margaret Atwood, Mary Oliver, and Adrienne Rich.

In five-minute moments, I fed my soul. I caught a bit of breathlessness on the swings. I let go of my self-pity by losing myself in a book that I was reading for no other reason but pleasure, one short chapter after another. I remembered emotions other than exhaustion, resentment, and unhappiness by finding poems that felt like gifts, consuming them slowly, like squares of chocolate. In moments stolen from the laundry or the dishes, between clients, or late at night, I found what fed my soul, one minute at a time.

Big hugs,
Kathleen

Find what feeds your soul at this month’s Life Craft Cafe, my mini retreats for moms. You’ll discover how to use your “me moments” to do what feeds your soul. Join a small group of moms for honest conversation, real connections, and a fresh approach to problem-solving through coaching + crafts. For more information and to register, visit thewellcraftedmom.com/life-craft-cafe.

A gift for you ...

XIII (Dedications)

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building fade to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
    up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the think
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
    hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
    between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
    left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Adrienne Rich, An Atlas of the Difficult World
1990-1991

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