Two days ago, I read The Old Man and The Sea by Hemingway. I understood the old man as I never did before.
Yesterday as I did my work, I noticed my head was remarkably quiet. It used to be ON most of the time, thinking, feeling scared, trying to figure out or predict. I can only attribute this peace to the fact that I do my work.
My work is to wipe boogers with any stray piece of cloth available from Beckam's nose as he races past me, sword in hand with no shirt.
My work is to write illegibly to everyone but myself...and sometimes even myself...because it is the only way to outrun the made-up stuff.
My work is to make coffee before anyone else in the house wakes up and to listen for my own voice.
My work is to kick Kit-the-cat off my bare toes in the kitchen before sunrise.
My work is to drive Sophie to school, to gymnastics, then home...and to always remember a snack which includes protein.
My work is to leave a canvas hanging by thumbtacks on the living room wall, and to lay paint until it is finished.
My work is to hear my husband's exasperated sigh and to kiss him anyway.
My work is never to loose my wedding ring, and to remember when I couldn't stop staring at it. I scrubbed it with a toothbrush in the shower so it would sparkle.
My work is to convince my weeping Pepper that she really will be brave enough to get her ears pierced by the time she turns 10 years old, and no they don't really give you a free teddy bear. It only hurts for a second. (I need Sophie's help on this one.)
My work is to sing Beckam "I am a Child of God" every night while smoothing fine red hairs from his wide forehead.
My work is to let Pepper paint with my favorite brushes every time she asks.
My work is to hang her pictures in the kitchen from the wire strung along the back wall designated for Kid Art.
My work is to sneak out of the house when no one is looking and run 3 miles into twilight and old songs.
My work is to call high school friends on their birthday and sing stupid songs into their voicemail.
My work is to stay up past my bedtime with Andrew while he takes a bath after a long work day.
It is to watch him in his soapy ritual and to love the way he washes his hair twice with eyes closed and bubbles sliding down his face.
It is my work not to leave him not with my body or with my heart or my actions...big or small.
It is my work to take leftover slices of time and turn them into art.
It is my work to invite little Beach over every Tuesday for art class. It is to leave her alone without trying to make her paintings my paintings.
My work is to say all the embarrassing stories out loud so the are not embarrassing anymore.
It is my work to pick up the towels that no one hangs on the rack in the bathroom.
My work is an ocean and when it is too big, I dive beneath the waves to where it is quiet.
