Me: Seamus, give Papa a kiss and a hug goodnight, because you’ll be in bed by the time he gets back.
Seamus: (kissing and hugging Evan) I love you, Papa. Goodnight. Now let me go and do my thing.
Brief silence, via my morning cup of coffee.
This is how I wake up every morning:
A little body in snug pajamas is wedged between my husband and me; an even smaller body is tucked under my arm. Soon the bigger of the small bodies starts wiggling and squirming and making the smaller one laugh. Then my husband is up and off to work, and the demands begin. Both little bodies desperately need the first diaper change of the day. The smaller is crying loudly but without words for a bottle, the bigger is begging with words for a “snacky bar” (granola) and “kid’s coffee” (warm milk with vanilla and sugar) over and over until I finally – and literally – drag my own adult body out of bed to attend to the little ones’ needs. With the baby on my hip I ready a bottle, make my son’s breakfast one-handed, and settle the two of them in to eat in front of PBS.
Then I have my coffee.
I need my coffee. It’s not the caffeine. Well, I’m sure it’s partly the caffeine. But more importantly, it’s a moment to retreat inside myself, find a tiny pocket of silence in which to rest fleetingly, and then emerge to take on the day. That quiet cup symbolizes the dark and fertile place where love grows. If I am to properly love my little seedlings, I must tend to my own garden first. For the rest of the day I will come second. I play, clothe, change, and bathe, tending to their needs. I even eat after them. And that’s as it should be.
I can’t fully explain how that place of silence affords such grace. I only know that if I fail to grasp it, we are all the worse for it. And if I let myself rest momentarily in that quiet place, I am somehow able to get through the day, however imperfectly.
Inspiration going into the week: John Paul II
For you, painters, writers, music players and all others who create. A pronouncement and a prayer from John Paul II’s letter to artists, published on Easter Sunday of 1999:
“…may your art help to affirm that true beauty which, as a glimmer of the Spirit of God, will transfigure matter, opening the human soul to the sense of the eternal.”
Food for Friday – Peanut Butter, Bananas and Honey.
Sometimes kid food is the simplest and most satisfying stuff. You can’t beat good old peanut butter and jelly (on wheat bread with strawberry jam, if you please). One step up from PBJ is peanut butter with bananas and honey. I was trying to figure out something to feed my two-year-old for lunch out of a pantry with dwindling supplies on a snowy day. I was out of jelly, but for once in a blue moon, had some honey on the top shelf of my spice cabinet. After I made an open-faced sandwich for him, I thought it looked pretty good and made one for myself. Mmmmmm. Maybe I was just really hungry. Or maybe the combination of hearty wheat toast, grainy all-natural peanut butter, creamy ripe bananas, and just a glaze of sweet honey is one for the ages. Seamus didn’t end up eating most of his, so I helped him finish. And I’ve had it for breakfast every morning since.
I’m sure you don’t need a recipe. Just toast a piece of bread, smear on some peanut butter, add sliced bananas and a drizzle of honey, and enjoy being transported back to when you were five and all you had to worry about was that your gloves would dry quickly enough on the radiator for you to go back out in the snow after lunch.
Funny things my kids say.
Seamus, leaning over at dinner and giving me a hug: “Oh mommy, thank you! This is the best chicken I ever had!” (Except that they were meatballs.)
In the face of disappointment…
“There is a lie that drags us/beating and pulling into disappointment.”
What Happens when the Heart Just Stops, The Frames
“Bless the Lord, my soul. All my being, bless His holy name!
Bless the Lord, my soul. Do not forget all the gifts of God…”
Psalm 103:1-5
I found out today that I didn’t get an editing job I was really counting on getting. I mean, really counting on getting. It seemed like fate that I should get this job. We need the money, and I’ve been praying really hard. Right after I started praying, this opportunity came along. It had to be God, right? I took the editing test. I thought I did well. I didn’t think I aced it, but I certainly thought I performed well enough to be trained according to this particular journal’s style. My emails to the company exuded confidence in my abilities. My conversations with friends exuded confidence in my abilities.
Instead, I received an email containing this line: “In general, your test did not reveal expertise in standard editing marks, an ability to query authors, proficiency in grammar rules to improve text, and basic familiarity with scientific terms.” It still hurts to re-read that. I can – and did – make excuses to myself and others about not being formally trained as an editor, that I was new to the science field, etc, etc, blah blah blah. Under it all is that punch-in-the-stomach blow of rejection, and it just hurts.
So, ok. That’s the temptation. To give into the immediate hurt and believe that I’m a failure, that I’m not good at this, that I was never meant to be a writer or an editor and I might as well stop fooling myself and give up. And the greater temptation is to discard my foolish notion that God actually had a plan for me, that getting this job was His will. That He actually wanted to give me something that I wanted.
A friend once said that Psalm 103, rather than being an exultation, was a command. That sometimes we need to order our souls to bless God. The hard part is having faith when you don’t get the answer you think you are going to get. I thought God had this job for me. He may or He may not. Who knows why things you think you are sure of do or don’t come to pass? Maybe I’d hate editing medical journals. Maybe I’m supposed to focus more on my kids and my home. Maybe I’m supposed to put all my efforts into this blog, which will be discovered by some bigwig in the publishing industry who wants to give me a book deal (did you hear that, God?)
I doubt myself easily. I’m quick to believe the bad and reluctant to believe the good. Unlike my husband (and my biggest cheerleader) I don’t always believe that anything’s possible so long as you don’t give up. And somewhere deep down, I don’t always believe that God is a God who wants to give me good things, things I want, work I’m good at doing.
So, my little soul, I command you, BLESS the Lord. All that is within me, BLESS His holy name. Editing job or not.
Inspiration going into the week: St. Francis De Sales.
On Mondays, I’ll try to post something inspirational – a quote, a bit of poetry, a work of art – to give myself and anyone who reads this something good and true to take into the week. Since St. Francis De Sales is the patron saint of writers and today is his feast day, here’s a quote from him:
“You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working and just so, you learn to love by loving. All those who think to learn in any other way deceive themselves.”
This week, I will try to learn to be a better writer, mother and wife just by being those things, by doing what they require and learning the wisdom those acts of doing hold.
Saturday night…by myself!
My favorite indulgence when I have a night to myself is red wine (and if my husband’s best friend has been around, maybe a cigarette too. Don’t tell anyone.) I love everything about red wine – the rich sounds of the very words, the deep color in the globed glass, the way the taste lingers. I used to drink wine more often, and then my kids came along. It makes me enjoy these quiet glasses that much more. Tonight my wine is accompanied by poetry, and maybe later, if I don’t fall asleep, a movie, probably something slow and British that my husband won’t watch with me. But right now, I’m enjoying this:
To Tanya on My Sixtieth Birthday
What wonder have you done to me?
In binding love you set me free.
These sixty years the wonders prove:
I bring you aged a young man’s love.
Wendell Berry
Food for Friday – Garlicky Sesame-Cured Broccoli Salad
I love food. I love going out to eat. Way back when I started to teach myself how to cook, I thought, why not cook things that are as good or as interesting as food I’d get in a restaurant? Now that I have kids, thrift, ease and speed are also considerations. This recipe’s got all of those things. It’s from “In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite” by Melissa Clark. She writes a food column for the New York Times Dining section, and each recipe in her book is accompanied by a mini-essay about the dish. For this one, she writes about how she used to call the dish marinated raw broccoli salad, and no one would eat it. She changed the name (I think “sesame-cured” makes it sound complicated, though it’s the exact opposite) and the dish finally got it’s due appreciation. It’s super easy and super good. My whole family loves it. It can act as a side dish, or you can toss in some chicken breast or shrimp, serve it with noodles and rice, and it’s a complete meal.
I followed the recipe exactly, and found it to be a little saucy. Next time, I think I’d up the broccoli amount, because although the sauce is delicious, the large amount of oil makes it feel heavy if there’s not something else to sop it up. (Sidenote – I love that she calls for “fat” garlic cloves. Can’t you just see them?) Here’s the recipe. Hope you like it!
Garlicky Sesame-Cured Broccoli Salad
1 1/2 tsp red wine vinegar
1 tsp kosher salt, more to taste
2 heads broccoli, 1 lb each, cut into bite-size florets
3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 fat garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
2 teaspoons roasted (Asian) sesame oil
Large pinch crushed red pepper flakes
1. In a large bowl, stir together the vinegar and salt. Add the broccoli and toss to combine.
2. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil until hot but not smoking. Add the garlic and cumin and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Stir in the sesame oil and pepper flakes. Pour the mixture over the broccoli and toss well. Let sit for at least 1 hour at room temperature, or chilled, up to 48 hours (chill it if you want to keep it for more than 2 hours.) Adjust the seasonings (it may need more salt) and serve.
Domestic bliss, for a moment.
Right now, I am perfectly happy. I’m making dinner in the kitchen while my children play in the basement, distracted and quiet. The Witmark Demos are on the stereo, and I am singing along quietly with Bob Dylan’s young, strong voice. I smack fat cloves of garlic with the side of my knife to release them from their papery skins, chop the heads off thick broccoli stalks and enjoy the solid sound of the blade hitting the cutting board.
This is what I thought life as a stay-at-home mother would always be like, and this is most emphatically not what life usually is. It’s been seven months since my second child, my daughter, was born, and probably about as long since I have been able to enjoy cooking dinner without anyone else in the kitchen. I knew family life was hard work, but no one ever prepared me for how draining, ceaseless, and all-consuming it really is. Nor could anyone tell me the complete joy and depth of love it would also yield.
Madeleine L’Engle writes of marriage (and I find it true not just of the marriage relationship but the parent relationship too), “I’ve learned that there will always be a next time, and that I will submerge in darkness and misery, but that I won’t stay submerged. And each time something has been learned under the waters; something has been gained; and a new kind of love has grown.”
For all the times I’ve cried in frustration trying to get babies to sleep at 3 in the morning, I’ve kissed chubby cheeks in pure delight. For every petulant “No!” from my two-year-old’s mouth, there has also been a heart-melting “I love you, Mama.” For every stormy misunderstanding between my husband and me, there are moments of utter unity. And, for every clamor of little voices, smashed toy and broken piece of china, there are, increasingly, moments of solitude, music I want to listen to, and the sound of a knife chopping broccoli.
This Love Is Silent 