"This blog. . . is one of the ways in which I remind myself of the joys, the beauty, and the blessings around me each and every day. Writing here helps me remember. And it helps me to see and look for those things, people, and moments which do bring me joy."
In another post, Soule writes about how her young sons have begun reading her blog, and how they enjoy searching the archives for stories about their younger selves. I can imagine the blog being a pleasurable read for them, given their mom's joyful, appreciative approach.
That got me to thinking about what I write about on my blog and in my essays. One of my big interests, I think, is to document the times when a moment of challenge opens up into a moment of beauty, or of greater closeness with someone I love, or of clarity, even if that clarity is very fleeting. I want to be honest about my own struggles as a mother without revealing too much of my children's private lives. I think it's often very hard to figure out where the "too much" line is, and of course it will probably keep shifting as they get older. Ideally, though, I'd like them to be able to read my writing about them without wincing.
After reading Amanda Soule's post, I've found myself trying to be more conscious of the beauty in my life. Not to be too Pollyanna-ish, but I've been noticing how it only takes a slight shift in perspective to turn something frustrating into something that's actually kind of lovely. Like, I can choose to find it annoying that my daughter insists on accompanying me from room to room and up and down the stairs (often holding my hand)--or I can feel incredibly grateful to have her company and find it sweet and endearing that she wants to be with me. I can feel discouraged and overwhelmed by the pile of laundry on my bed waiting to be sorted, or I can savor the way my life is enmeshed with the lives of three other wonderful people as I fold each pair of size 3 pink pants, each size 6 T-shirt emblazoned with a truck or car, each Lands End button-down shirt and pair of black Levis.
This week I was at a meeting with some other library advocates who have been fighting to save our little old library. We were drafting an op-ed that we hope to publish in the St. Paul newspaper as a pre-emptive measure before the upcoming city budget hearing, and we were shaking our heads over how enamored the current city government seems to be with fancy, sleek new libraries over decades-old, dearly beloved ones like ours. One of my comadres in the fight laughed, "We like our library BECAUSE it's dorky and funky!"
Tonight, I'm feeling such a deep, deep love for my own dorky, funky life.
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