There are two ways to find more space. There’s the way I’m used to, the way I’m always tempted to go, the way that the glossy pages of women’s magazines and the self-help sections of books stores shout at me in bright letters: Stretch Outwards.
Press up against the boundaries as far as you can go, pack more in. Find the edges, those tiny spaces, and fill them up. I read a book once which was a study of 30 of the highest earning women who were also mothers, and how they managed to fit everything in. There were a few real gems tucked in there that I still refer to, but on the whole the book left me with a slightly panicked and guilty feeling. Apparently there were vast swaths of time and energy in the fringes of my day lying wasted, and I should be harvesting those moments with a militant precision (did you know we waste 5 minutes a day waiting for the kettle to boil? 5 minutes brushing our teeth? 15 minutes bathing? You could use that time to write a to-do list, or do some lunges, or listen to a podcast, or deeply connect with your child’s emotional needs).
Stretch yourself. Dig a little deeper. Press a little harder. Lean into the edges, see how far they will bend. I am pretty skilled at trying to fit more in, at negotiating the boundaries with my husband, with work, with all the optional claims on my time. It gives me a sort of electric buzz that’s hard to let go of. I like saying yes. I get panicky seeing too many blank days on a calendar with not enough in them. I love the sense of accomplishment when I’ve done something superhuman, like worked 6 hours, cooked a meal for a friend, exercised, written a bit, done an activity with my children, finished the laundry, cleaned the bathroom, made a doctor’s appointment and done the dishes, while in a pandemic. (Or while pregnant. Or any other such situation I’ve found myself in the past few years of motherhood).
But here’s the thing: I’m not superhuman.
When I live like I can do anything, the words of Bilbo Baggins start ringing in my ears:
“I’m old, Gandalf. I know I don’t look it but I’m beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel thin… sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don’t expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.”
The ring Bilbo was carrying was not made to be carried by people (or hobbits), and I was not meant to carry absolutely everything. And I know this feeling, this scraped thin feeling, this feeling you just need to drop everything and run away on a permanent holiday, and it comes from my own pride in thinking I can do it all. My own wish to extend myself beyond myself, to do everything, feeding on the voices of a broken society around me that are telling me to do more.
Except.
Except while I can’t do everything, it’s also true that I do need space. The opposite of feeling stretched too thin is feeling too cramped. Feeling suffocated, feeling my mind slowly decaying around me while it lies there unused. I don’t want to lop off parts of myself so that I will fit neatly into the categories presented to me : writer or worker or mother.
The list of things I need to thrive is quite simple, like directions for a houseplant, although they appear full of contradictions: Water. Sleep. Sunshine. Noise. Writing. Silence. Books. Children.
So here’s the other way I’m finding to make space: burrowing in. Microscopes as well as telescopes reveal the wild wonder of God’s world. He created galaxies beyond the edges of our earth, yes, but a universe of life can be found in our own back gardens. Some seasons we can find more space by adventuring out, and some seasons we are asked to find more space by adventuring in.
Monotony is not always a sign of death and boredom. Sometimes it’s the sign of mastery, of life. This quote by GK Chesterton preaches to me:
Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”
Fierce. Free. Abounding Vitality. Could all of this be mine if, rather than feeling I’m nearly dead from doing it the hundredth time, I entered into pushing my toddler on the swing with as much joy as he has swinging on it? If I was truly as fascinated with snails and sand and dump-truck mechanisms as my four year old? Perhaps learning to exult in monotony as much as endless variety is part of the Spirit shaping my soul into a better human and writer, making me stronger.
And if I were to just notice the mundane,
if I were to pay more attention,
to pause
at the way light falls through our windows at 6:45 in the morning,
perhaps I could turn wiping counters and snotty noses
into poetry
with my reverence and contemplation.
Tiny House Eastertide
Here is my 21 month old pondering his fingers sometime on Easter weekend when we had glorious autumn sunshine and flowers. We had brunch with friends later in the weekend on our patio (the main way we do hospitality in the tiny house, even when it’s not a pandemic) and we were very grateful. PS- my 3-step tiny house cleaning/tidying philosophy is over here if you want it!
Things I love
Easter playlists from Sacred Ordinary Days: If you’re looking to incorporate more liturgical calendar in your life, Sacred Ordinary Days not only create planners (which I haven’t used, so can’t personally vouch for) but also Spotify playlists which follow the liturgical calendar. I am terrible at sitting down to make playlists, and love it when someone else does it for me.
Liturgy of the hours, Sing the hours: Sometimes it’s fun to try something special at Eastertide. I’ve used Phyllis Tickle’s Divine Hours prayerbook at times during Advent, but listening to Laudes and Vespers chanted is a whole different experience. The number of Alleluias really hits you, and it’s a beautiful way to wake up in the morning.
Mrs Piggle Wiggle : Okay, we read these books as kids and I’m now listening to it on audio with my almost 4 year old (who has liked them!) The best part is not so much the listening, but the fact that now I can get him to clean up or take his bath and get ready for bed by leaving the house and coming back with an apron on my head pretending to be a wicked witch inspecting his level of cleanliness. He loves it, and it has made supper/bath/bed havoc lots more fun (and lots quicker!).
Hilary Seeking Wonder: I’ve been following Hilary for years on social media for her beautiful words and the way she wrestles with motherhood, fallenness, writing, and hope. She now is back on with a Substack newsletter. If you want a calm, beautifully worded 800 word essay that feels more like a poem than an essay, and will make you think about life, or God, or motherhood slightly differently - go sign up.
El Camino de Santiago memories: In 2015 during April my husband and I did the El Camino, and I made us a photo book of our adventure. This time of year always makes me think about it, and it has been fun looking back at our adventure, and reflecting on the way the layers of what it taught us are still sinking in, years later. I wrote about it on my blog and you can read all my stories from that time by scrolling through the Camino category. This link should take you there.
Fresh flowers: We have a bit of weirdness in that most liturgical living ideas relate to the northern hemisphere and we’re in the southern hemisphere. So flowers during Easter doesn’t have the same “bring in Spring” associations that it does in the north. But these early autumn flowers grown by our local farmer exchange group are making me very happy.
A poem for you : Prayer to the God of Infinitesimals
In the synapse between my finger and alarm clock
I lift my eyes from dreams of endless horizons,
lift my eyelids weighted with the sand of sleep,
leave the unexplored Dawn of new worlds
for the cramping sameness of the routine of Day,
familiar faces with narrow eyes smaller than
the space between the bristles of my toothbrush
or the interval between my fingernail and a grain of sand.
Lift my eyes down, God, to where you are
That I may discover the universes residing in
the blinking of narrow eyes, the cloud of numerous possibilities
haloing the synapse between my finger and the light-switch;
That character is not reshaped by adventures in unknown seas
but with the chaffing of tiny grains of sand,
with a chisel narrower than a toothbrush bristle
with the repetitious patience of a ticking alarm clock.
Teach me that when I think I am shrinking my vision
infinity inhabits the smallest spaces of my life.
-Steph Ebert
Author’s note: I wrote this poem in college, before children , but discovered it on my computer today a few minutes before sending this out. Perhaps some of these things need to be learned and relearned… and a nice reminder that whether you have children or not, there is often a longing and tension between wanting more and settling in.
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