Anne Morrow Lindbergh
It is not always easy to find the time and space to write. To think or to plan or to research are hard, but also to write.
Writing takes concentration and focus, at least for me, and I seem to need to find a certain kind of peace around me. When I do get into the groove and my thoughts and feelings start to spill onto the page – I get tunnel vision, and all distractions become just that, “distractions.” I can’t focus on what the kids are telling me, or on being the United Nations to their current war, or to their seemingly constant hunger for snacks. I need to be in my own head and my own space for a while. This sounds so very easy, to just take a Mom break, and go on the other side of a door into a room full of fabulous feng shui and lovely peaceful colors, and to get my words on paper. Not reality though.
I work most days at the kitchen table. Laptop open and always at the ready. With school notes, and permission slips for camp, and the actual work I do for a paycheck – all lying about in piles around my computer. Everything has its priority, and everything usually gets done. But the writing is where I take the hit. It does not always make it to the top of the priority list, with so many fires to put out that could set the kitchen table ablaze if I let them.
I had planned this summer to be one of slow days and more relaxation than we have seen in years before. Limited therapy for Shea, and limited time in the car driving from one place to the other. More time at the pool, in the backyard, and riding our bikes. And a much more relaxed Mom, who was not spending her summer in the front seat of a minivan.
But somehow other responsibilities have taken over. My relaxing summer has now become one where I have three kids in three different places, needing to be dropped off and picked up and shuttled about almost constantly throughout the day. Fun opportunities came up, and new classes to take and try, and great chances for them to learn and grow and exercise. How do I pass that up for them? But the times have literally bumped right up against each other. If I get stuck by a train or a lot of traffic, someone is going to be left on a corner with no Mom there to get them. I have found myself praying for green lights, swearing under my breath, and being a bit of a crab to my husband – because I feel so much frustration spending all of my time driving.
I want to write. I want to sit in front of my laptop and let all these ideas and thoughts come forward. I crave that peace it gives me to share my world on paper, to think through things that are clouded in my mind. I want that feeling of accomplishment in doing something meaningful. I have found my passage and have shared my ideas and thoughts, and for me that feeling ranks right up there at the top. But with so many responsibilities, so much guilt over who is waiting for me to finish something, a job I love and kids I love, and a house that simply cannot do its own laundry or load its own dishwasher, I often feel more conflicted and weighed down than anything else.
As I felt the numb exhaustion of lifting a child with a disability in and out of the car, and everywhere else I seem to carry her growing little frame. Coupled with the exhaustion of driving in traffic, and coordinating schedules and feeding and raising children, I lie in bed feeling as if I had done nothing. Nothing of matter intellectually I guess. But then I picked up my beloved Gifts From The Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and read to the page it opened to. Anne wrote about exactly what I was feeling, but in 1955, and in the frame of a woman who had five children, a famous husband, and craved her writing time. She talks of how a woman is programmed to “give” but somehow doesn’t find satisfaction in giving herself completely away doing mindless things. Anne writes, “I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposelessly.” In addition she speaks of the “hunger” woman feel to do something of matter, something that lets them examine their creativity and passions. She writes, “ We are hungry, and not knowing what we are hungry for, we fill up the void with endless distractions, always at hand – unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, social niceties.”
It amazes me that 58 years ago, Anne Morrow Lindbergh was struggling with exactly the same feelings, and challenges I am facing. A desire to create and a lack of time or space to do so. It makes me feel as if I have to make my own space. Whether it is at the kitchen table, in the front seat of my car, or in a therapy waiting room; I have to find my space.
Writing takes concentration and focus, at least for me, and I seem to need to find a certain kind of peace around me. When I do get into the groove and my thoughts and feelings start to spill onto the page – I get tunnel vision, and all distractions become just that, “distractions.” I can’t focus on what the kids are telling me, or on being the United Nations to their current war, or to their seemingly constant hunger for snacks. I need to be in my own head and my own space for a while. This sounds so very easy, to just take a Mom break, and go on the other side of a door into a room full of fabulous feng shui and lovely peaceful colors, and to get my words on paper. Not reality though.
I work most days at the kitchen table. Laptop open and always at the ready. With school notes, and permission slips for camp, and the actual work I do for a paycheck – all lying about in piles around my computer. Everything has its priority, and everything usually gets done. But the writing is where I take the hit. It does not always make it to the top of the priority list, with so many fires to put out that could set the kitchen table ablaze if I let them.
I had planned this summer to be one of slow days and more relaxation than we have seen in years before. Limited therapy for Shea, and limited time in the car driving from one place to the other. More time at the pool, in the backyard, and riding our bikes. And a much more relaxed Mom, who was not spending her summer in the front seat of a minivan.
But somehow other responsibilities have taken over. My relaxing summer has now become one where I have three kids in three different places, needing to be dropped off and picked up and shuttled about almost constantly throughout the day. Fun opportunities came up, and new classes to take and try, and great chances for them to learn and grow and exercise. How do I pass that up for them? But the times have literally bumped right up against each other. If I get stuck by a train or a lot of traffic, someone is going to be left on a corner with no Mom there to get them. I have found myself praying for green lights, swearing under my breath, and being a bit of a crab to my husband – because I feel so much frustration spending all of my time driving.
I want to write. I want to sit in front of my laptop and let all these ideas and thoughts come forward. I crave that peace it gives me to share my world on paper, to think through things that are clouded in my mind. I want that feeling of accomplishment in doing something meaningful. I have found my passage and have shared my ideas and thoughts, and for me that feeling ranks right up there at the top. But with so many responsibilities, so much guilt over who is waiting for me to finish something, a job I love and kids I love, and a house that simply cannot do its own laundry or load its own dishwasher, I often feel more conflicted and weighed down than anything else.
As I felt the numb exhaustion of lifting a child with a disability in and out of the car, and everywhere else I seem to carry her growing little frame. Coupled with the exhaustion of driving in traffic, and coordinating schedules and feeding and raising children, I lie in bed feeling as if I had done nothing. Nothing of matter intellectually I guess. But then I picked up my beloved Gifts From The Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and read to the page it opened to. Anne wrote about exactly what I was feeling, but in 1955, and in the frame of a woman who had five children, a famous husband, and craved her writing time. She talks of how a woman is programmed to “give” but somehow doesn’t find satisfaction in giving herself completely away doing mindless things. Anne writes, “I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposelessly.” In addition she speaks of the “hunger” woman feel to do something of matter, something that lets them examine their creativity and passions. She writes, “ We are hungry, and not knowing what we are hungry for, we fill up the void with endless distractions, always at hand – unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, social niceties.”
It amazes me that 58 years ago, Anne Morrow Lindbergh was struggling with exactly the same feelings, and challenges I am facing. A desire to create and a lack of time or space to do so. It makes me feel as if I have to make my own space. Whether it is at the kitchen table, in the front seat of my car, or in a therapy waiting room; I have to find my space.
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