I recently wrote a paper for my class that was inspired by a quote from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. It is somewhat soul baring, but that never seems to stop me, so here it is in all its psychological and emotional nakedness.
I stand on my yoga mat, eyes closed, soaking in the luscious warmth of the early morning sun on my back and listening to the soothing sounds of ocean and piano and flute wafting lightly from my ipod speakers. I hold the warrior pose and feel calm, content -- until a cold spray of water from the hose douses the fire of my inner peace. Gid, the two year-old fireman/assassin has found me and targeted me for a soaking. I turn off the hose, retake my position on the wet mat and close my eyes, intent on finding my inner nirvana once again. Who am I kidding? Gid is now screaming and crying at my knees, taking my name in vain over and over. “Mommy, Mommy!” I ignore him. I will have this time for me. The alarm on my cell phone goes off – time to pick up Curtis. I open my eyes. Eli has now been soaked by the two year-old and has stripped down to his underwear. Gid is in his usual uniform: Huggies--size five.
I turn off the ocean, piano and flute. No time to dress the kids, I throw the Littles in the car in their sundry states of undress. We pick up Curty, 10 minutes late, again. Back home I stumble past one, two, three baskets of laundry on my way in through the laundry room. Just in time I remember, “Don’t inhale or you’ll smell the load of darks that’s been washed three times and is still mildewing in the washer.” I try to make a mental note to reboot the abandoned wash and transfer it, but my mental notepad has run out and I don’t where to find a replacement.
I head to my bedroom and trip on the Monopoly game whose contents are now cavorting with toy kitchen utensils and a hundred children’s videos at the top of the stairs. They’ve been waiting patiently to be taken down and put away, but have finally rebelled and thrown themselves at my feet hoping to get my attention.
In the car I made the mistake of telling Gid that later we’d be going to Wal-mart to get Otter Pops. Of course I meant after I change out of my yoga clothes, get dressed, brush my teeth, throw my hair in a ponytail and find clothes for everyone else. Discovering we are NOT at Wal-mart he follows me into my room, on the verge of losing his mind again. He is mindlessly crying, “Pop, pop, pop” until I want to scream. I’m trying to get dressed before he loses it, but he can’t seem to understand that my getting dressed is the only obstacle to his Otter Pop ecstasy. If he would just let me do it quickly he would get his pop sooner.
So I stop. I kneel down. I talk gently to him, hug him, hold him for a minute trying to explain, but when I put him down it starts all over again. I will lose it soon, I know it. My brain is frazzled and I can’t think. Will my life consist of carrying Gid around every day from Sesame Street to Letterman to keep him from having another terrible two year-old tantrum? I can’t even imagine a life that allows me to clean, cook, do laundry, home school, teach 15 year-old girls at church, read books, write papers, study the scriptures, be a loving wife, take care of the garden and do yoga in the sun by the pool all with this cherubic barnacle on my hip. Two years of this has left my bucket empty.
Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Attivan, Valium, Concerta. Psychiatrists think they have answers, but they somehow make things worse in the end. Feeling crazy is not helping. I watched my mom go “crazy” in her pre-menopausal 40’s and I don’t want to go there. I want to forget myself. My neighbor is sick and I want to do something sweet to let her know I’m thinking of her, but I don’t. I see others needs but I can’t get past my own. I do pray for them. I pray a lot, long and hard. It is my comfort and my one sense of power. Time to pray again.
I’m finally dressed and as I walk through the kitchen I stop and see the wildflowers on my table. Last week a friend brought them by for no reason. Some of them droop sadly over the crumb-covered cloth, but the petite spray of purple somethings still stand perkily in the vase to remind me of her thoughtfulness.
I turn and notice the two, sunny yellow lemons in my untidy fruit bowl. These were delivered by the neighbor who heard I was sick and brought me lemons and a box of herbal tea. Then out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a Chinese take-out box dressed up in pink brocade and silver, sitting askew on top of my fridge. The contents: bubble bath, a candle and chocolate. The sender: another loving lady from church. She left these with my husband yesterday accompanied by a note that said she had been thinking about me.
Apparently someone is sending a message out to the universe. Is it me? I thought I was doing well at keeping my secrets. Is it the Lord? More likely. I’m pricked with guilt. I have done nothing to deserve these tender acts of mercy but oh, how they have touched my soul.
“The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, lines 182-185.
I am blessed. Today it is my turn to take. Someday I will give.
Mercy
I stand on my yoga mat, eyes closed, soaking in the luscious warmth of the early morning sun on my back and listening to the soothing sounds of ocean and piano and flute wafting lightly from my ipod speakers. I hold the warrior pose and feel calm, content -- until a cold spray of water from the hose douses the fire of my inner peace. Gid, the two year-old fireman/assassin has found me and targeted me for a soaking. I turn off the hose, retake my position on the wet mat and close my eyes, intent on finding my inner nirvana once again. Who am I kidding? Gid is now screaming and crying at my knees, taking my name in vain over and over. “Mommy, Mommy!” I ignore him. I will have this time for me. The alarm on my cell phone goes off – time to pick up Curtis. I open my eyes. Eli has now been soaked by the two year-old and has stripped down to his underwear. Gid is in his usual uniform: Huggies--size five.
I turn off the ocean, piano and flute. No time to dress the kids, I throw the Littles in the car in their sundry states of undress. We pick up Curty, 10 minutes late, again. Back home I stumble past one, two, three baskets of laundry on my way in through the laundry room. Just in time I remember, “Don’t inhale or you’ll smell the load of darks that’s been washed three times and is still mildewing in the washer.” I try to make a mental note to reboot the abandoned wash and transfer it, but my mental notepad has run out and I don’t where to find a replacement.
I head to my bedroom and trip on the Monopoly game whose contents are now cavorting with toy kitchen utensils and a hundred children’s videos at the top of the stairs. They’ve been waiting patiently to be taken down and put away, but have finally rebelled and thrown themselves at my feet hoping to get my attention.
In the car I made the mistake of telling Gid that later we’d be going to Wal-mart to get Otter Pops. Of course I meant after I change out of my yoga clothes, get dressed, brush my teeth, throw my hair in a ponytail and find clothes for everyone else. Discovering we are NOT at Wal-mart he follows me into my room, on the verge of losing his mind again. He is mindlessly crying, “Pop, pop, pop” until I want to scream. I’m trying to get dressed before he loses it, but he can’t seem to understand that my getting dressed is the only obstacle to his Otter Pop ecstasy. If he would just let me do it quickly he would get his pop sooner.
So I stop. I kneel down. I talk gently to him, hug him, hold him for a minute trying to explain, but when I put him down it starts all over again. I will lose it soon, I know it. My brain is frazzled and I can’t think. Will my life consist of carrying Gid around every day from Sesame Street to Letterman to keep him from having another terrible two year-old tantrum? I can’t even imagine a life that allows me to clean, cook, do laundry, home school, teach 15 year-old girls at church, read books, write papers, study the scriptures, be a loving wife, take care of the garden and do yoga in the sun by the pool all with this cherubic barnacle on my hip. Two years of this has left my bucket empty.
Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Attivan, Valium, Concerta. Psychiatrists think they have answers, but they somehow make things worse in the end. Feeling crazy is not helping. I watched my mom go “crazy” in her pre-menopausal 40’s and I don’t want to go there. I want to forget myself. My neighbor is sick and I want to do something sweet to let her know I’m thinking of her, but I don’t. I see others needs but I can’t get past my own. I do pray for them. I pray a lot, long and hard. It is my comfort and my one sense of power. Time to pray again.
I’m finally dressed and as I walk through the kitchen I stop and see the wildflowers on my table. Last week a friend brought them by for no reason. Some of them droop sadly over the crumb-covered cloth, but the petite spray of purple somethings still stand perkily in the vase to remind me of her thoughtfulness.
I turn and notice the two, sunny yellow lemons in my untidy fruit bowl. These were delivered by the neighbor who heard I was sick and brought me lemons and a box of herbal tea. Then out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a Chinese take-out box dressed up in pink brocade and silver, sitting askew on top of my fridge. The contents: bubble bath, a candle and chocolate. The sender: another loving lady from church. She left these with my husband yesterday accompanied by a note that said she had been thinking about me.
Apparently someone is sending a message out to the universe. Is it me? I thought I was doing well at keeping my secrets. Is it the Lord? More likely. I’m pricked with guilt. I have done nothing to deserve these tender acts of mercy but oh, how they have touched my soul.
“The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, lines 182-185.
I am blessed. Today it is my turn to take. Someday I will give.
6 comments:
"cherubic barnacle"--I love it! Great writing, Jen, and yes--it's good for the soul to 'take' once-in-awhile! I hope you got to use the bath stuff that very day. :)
Great post, Jen! Sorry you've got the sicks again. Hope you're feeling better!
I feel awed and speechless. You truly have strength beyond comprehension (and sometimes beyond your knowledge). And, you are giving--every day. Don't ever forget that. Love ya.
Jen I love your writing and your sweet honesty. I only wish I lived closer to you so I could see you in person. I will send a virtual hug to you though.
Hey Jen,
This really brought tears to my eyes. I think sometimes we have to know that we do deserve mercy from unexpected places. Maybe we don't always think we deserve it, we see too many faults and things done wrong and times we've felt ungrateful or whatever, but sometimes we just can't see the whole perspective when we're down in the pits.
That is what mercy and grace are all about, someone/thing larger than us who can see the whole picture and knows when we need that extra bit of mercy to keep us going. We do deserve it because we hang in there when it's hard and seemingly impossible at times. We keep trying to give our all to our kids & loved ones. We tend to sacrifice ourselves without much thought.
When that mercy does come, just say an inner 'Thank You!' and breathe. And, you are so right, we'll get our turn to give back. But we have to be willing to receive sometimes too.
You are an inspiring Mom & Sister.
Love ya, Sher
I don't know how you do it.
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