Shattered Time

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From February 5, 1998

There have been moments, many moments, when I wished I were living in a monastery. Wouldn’t it be simpler to be more prayerful, more contemplative, more peaceful in the quiet and order of a hermitage instead of being in the midst of unceasing demands of little ones, unwavering deadlines, and the conflicting schedules of a large family?

 

Strangely enough, as  I leafed through a monastery cookbook looking for a recipe that could easily be quadrupled, I stumbled upon this quote from The Long Rule of St. Basil: “In the midst of our work we can fulfill the duty of prayer, giving thanks to him who has granted strength to our hands for performing our tasks and cleverness to our minds for acquiring knowledge, and for providing the materials.”

 

This concept appeals to me enormously-- to pray unceasingly through the work of my ordinary days, to consecrate the little things and so to live joyfully in the continual presence of  God. I am not new to the idea of doing more than one things at a time. Early in my mothering adventure, it was an idea suggested to me often. Experienced voices sung the praises of cleaning the bathroom while supervising a child’s bath, making a phone call while emptying the dishwasher, and my favorite, listening to books on tape while doing the housework. I even have a postpartum exercise book that suggests the following:

 

"Start your plies in the bathroom as you finish you bicep curls—then go to the bathroom. Go to the sink and do the wall push and the tricep extension while continuing to work your legs...Do kinetic pushups standing up. Now do your calf raises while brushing your teeth. Then wash your face and contine with the plies and some kegels. Next turn on the shower and while it’s getting hot, do 25 to 50 controlled crunches. Take a shower.”

 

One can see how the idea of dovetailing can get out of hand. One morning , as I was brushing my teeth and supervising a youngster in the tub, I tried to answer the phone. It didn’t work. After finishing at the sink, concluding the phone call, toweling and dressing my son, it dawned on me that I might be taking efficiency a bit too far. In my effort to do as much as possible with a day that seemed too short, I was missing opportunities to sanctify the moment.

 

If we shatter time into tiny fragments we cannot be fully present in it. We cannot be conscious that our work is a prayer and find the sacred in the ordinary. We cannot feel the presence of God. To go even further, if we bustle along at this pace, we are not readily available to the people in our lives either. And, finally, we are the short track to burnout, the inability to see, or hear, or feel, or sense the joy that is abundantly present in every day life. We are simply too tired, too stressed, too preoccupied.

 

Returning to the ridiculous exercise quote, my most fruitful prayers are ones I pray while walking in the early morning. The rhythm of my feet and the wheels of the stroller in front of me, the quiet of the morning and the sounds of God’s creation in nature all work in harmony to bring together a blending of body and spirit. But this requires full time and attention to my walking meditation. It is entirely different from cramming in as many crunches as possible before the water gets hot.

 

One of the best ways to experience joy in a house full of kids is to pretend you are a monk. Sanctify your movements. All of them. Slow them down. Be aware of your purpose. Give thanks for your chores. Make them holy. Make them happy.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in these few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Embrace Them

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From August 1996

When we finally moved into our new house, I had a goal: complete all the unpacking, hang all the curtains and pictures and be back into our regular schedule within two weeks. Everything was in order; I had a well-considered "to do" list, an abundance of natural energy and a powerful nesting urge, and every good intention to settle my family so that we would all be happier in a home that seemed so far from the familiar.

I hadn't counted on Patrick. Patrick is the most agreeable and articulate toddler I have ever encountered. (I am totally unbiased as I write this.) He is pure joy from morning until night, and then he sleeps a solid ten hours in his own bed without ever needing me. This child has certainly been an easy one. But Patrick has two fears: trucks and strange men.

Five houses on our street are under construction, including the the two next door. Trucks are the only traffic we see in this otherwise empty neighborhood. They pass by our house dozens of times every day and, for the first two weeks, would send Patrick screaming to be held. Upon picking him up, he would cling for dear life for the next hour--or until the next truck. As for strange men, there was the telephone man, the cable man and the countless construction men who would arrive unannounced throughout the day to fix this or that detail. Patrick would not let me put him down. He hadn't read my list and he didn't care about my agenda.

His brothers thought the trucks were "really way cool," and they quickly adapted to the presence of strange men in the house. They also figured that a new house in a new neighborhood should probably have new rules. Sot hey set out to test all the old ones. They seemed to remember so little of our former structure that my husband and I began to wonder if we left our children in Springfield.

Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, I recalled an essay I had read in Discovering Motherhood several years ago. The essayist had a complaint like mine. Her son would not allow her to accomplish anything. he wanted her undivided attention constantly. She swallowed her pride and called he sister-in-law, the mother of four children, for advice. This is the counsel she received:

Embrace him. He is empty and unsure of your permanence, for whatever reason, and the more you resist, the more unsure he gets. The more unsure he gets, the more he will cling. Embrace him every time he wants you to, for as long as he wants you to. Don't let go until he does. Eventually he will.

What wise advice. It applied most obviously to Patrick, still a toddler who was easily held in my arms. But it also applied to the older boys. I needed to remind them again and again that the security  of those rules and routines that had always been a part of their lives still existed. They needed to know that I still cared enough to monitor and restrict as necessary. All three children were begging for me--my time, my attention, my comforting presence. More than boxes unpacked and pictures hung, my children needed to know that I was the same as before, constant, unchanging and always available.

Eventually, I did unpack the pictures; and I marveled at how quickly my children have changed. There isn't a trace of roundness in my once fat babies. Where there used to be a full set of baby teeth, my oldest now sports a gap-toothed smile. And the bald baby has a full head of blond curls. The time to hold them close is short indeed. Once again, I am resolving to cherish this time, to wrap myself around it with all my being, to embrace it. And them.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled withold columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.