Begin again

“Drink from the well of yourself and begin again." - Charles Bukowski

Isn't that a marvelous bit of advice? It popped into my email today, courtesy of the Quiet Revolution newsletter I receive, and I saw it after working in my yard for a hot, humid hour.

This has been a very difficult week for me, and I have felt myself turning inward with anxiety, self-doubt, and overwhelm. It has been hard to fall and stay asleep, and harder still to tap into the confidence and self-respect I usually carry. I've felt like a solitary being caught in torrential downpour and tasked with catching every drop with nothing more than my hands. 

Head back, eyes wide, hands outstretched, it seems futile. Intimidating. Not worth trying.

I'm not sure what precipitated this inner maelstrom. I had such a happy birthday, flew high for a good bit and then started coasting downward on a steep slope. Most of my friends have felt awfully frazzled since the beginning of May; the end of school is shockingly busy and everyone is tired.

Just when your kids run out of matching socks and pants with intact knees, you start the race to the finish, and it's chock-a-block full of transitional meetings, final conferences with teachers about what may or may not need to be done over the summer, the coordination of gifts and last play dates before kids scatter on the winds of June. 

But this last-lap sprint can't explain everything, or at least it doesn't seem like it can. I have felt like an empty well and doubt I'd have thought to drink from myself anyway.

After writing about the situation in a tremendously wonderful class I just finished up, a friend responded: 
I believe mothering was never ever meant to be done in isolation. It's a construct we've created as society and it has been intensified in the last 30 years as we become separated (sometimes a good thing, grant you) from extended family and what were our natural tribes/villages. Now one woman is supposed to be all things to all her children but she can't be. It's a physical, emotional and mental impossibility. She cannot be good at *everything*.

Beautiful and true. Even the best of friends, and I am lucky to have so many, don't wholly approximate the community that other times and other cultures have and do have. The weight of that loss feels leaden at times.

Mom came the morning after a very low point, and I continue to be incredibly grateful for her presence. She has allowed, reminded and enabled me to slow down. She has helped with the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the yard. She has picked the boys up from school, helped me fix odds and ends, taken some of the heaviness from my shoulders.

Slowly, I am righting my listing ship. My vision is clearing, and I am able to remember that although I do not have a career and don't bring home the bacon, I am good at many things.

Today, as I plucked weeds and put down fresh mulch, a gentle breeze blew, and I felt calm. My mind wasn't racing, my jaw wasn't clenched. I wasn't worried about all I needed to do, I heard the birds singing and watched the ants march.

My thirst felt slaked for the first time in too long.