What Saves You?

Today I was plagued by a huge amount of mental clutter, a near-constant yammering of inner voices telling me how my life ought to be different and all the ways I was screwing up. 

This morning the kids and I were very crabby with each other.  I found my thoughts cluttered with "ifs" and comparisons to other, more capable mothers.  If the kids were in school, maybe we wouldn't get so sick of each other. . . If I was better at establishing a strong daily and weekly rhythm like some of the Waldorf homeschoolers I know, maybe the kids and I wouldn't fight so much. . .  If I was a stronger, better person, I wouldn't get so easily annoyed. . . Rather than responding to what was happening with attentiveness and compassion, I was madly pacing around in my head, completely disconnected from my children, not to mention my own heart and common sense.  

This is not fun, nor is it helpful.  Tomorrow, I'm hoping to work on recognizing when I start to go down that road.  Just noticing, pure and simple.  Sometimes that's all it takes--just that quiet act of mercifully noticing, "You're doing it again, sweetheart.  What's up with that?"

In her poem "In Response to the Evangelist Door-Knocking Who Asked:  What Saves You?", St. Paul poet Margaret Hasse begins,

Dusk doesn't, dawn does.

Morning splendor,

over and over and over again.

Newspapers don't, with their harpy

human interest stories.

But ah, coffee with milk in a plain white mug. . .

What saved me today?

Having my daughter say, "Let's go play some songs on your guitar" when we were all getting crabby and mean.  Strumming and singing "Rain, rain go away" with my girl as the raindrops drummed down outside and my son played with his Matchbox cars nearby.

While I cooked dinner, hearing my children's uproarious laughter from the living room as their dad read a book out loud, ad libbing silly jokes, doing goofy voices, hamming it up as only he can.

Overhearing my husband listen respectfully as my son compared the various merits of different Lego kits in the new catalog he got in the mail today.

Cooking a favorite omelet from a battered, stained vegetarian cookbook my mom bought for me when I was a sophomore in college and I swore off meat.  Remembering how she bought a copy of the Moosewood Cookbook for her own kitchen shelf, so she'd have an idea of what to make for me when I came home.  

Calling my mom tonight to thank her for buying those cookbooks, all those years ago.  Hearing the surprise in her voice.

Just now, meditating in my bedroom, listening to the rain beat against the windows.  Years ago, I rented a little house in Arkansas with a roof so leaky, my bedroom was strewn with bowls and pans and still rain puddled all over the wood floors.  Sitting on my cushion tonight, recognizing the pleasure of a roof that doesn't leak and walls that hold out the cold--that was what saved me.

So.  What saves you?