6 miles

My boys had this idea to make a six mile paddle and since I am in such amazing shape (snort) I said, “Sounds fun!  Let’s do it!”  We set out at noon, low tide being more important than avoiding the heat of the day I guess.  The water was so choppy that I got nauseated.  As I sit here typing this, I can feel the waves under me still.  It was an act of will to make it back to the place where we were to be picked up.  I’m still sweating.  My bones hurt.  I asked Keats, “Do your arm bones hurt?”  Jonny said, “Ginny, he’s twelve.  Of course his bones don’t hurt.  You’re like forty.”  For the record, I’m 37, and that is not 40, Jonathan.  But seriously, my bones HURT.

p.s. Of course I carried some knitting for “just in case,” and I took a break from paddling to knit a few rounds on Jonny’s hat.  Time to decrease, finally!!

Water World

Summertime is a messy time.  I write that as if fall, winter, and spring are neat and clean.  I need to face the music:  life is messy year round.  Sometimes I am really good at accepting that and not tying it to personal failure on my part, but instead to my families’ priorities.  We are all fond of big messy projects and tend to choose them over housework most days.  We’re homeschoolers.  We’re supposed to do this stuff, right?  But sometimes I totally snap and start walking around my house seeing all the work that needs to be done and I start to cry.  Saturday was one of those days for me.  And this was the Saturday that followed the Friday night that I went kayaking with Seth.  According to Jonny, kayaking is really good for me.  It should help me to destressify (yes, that’s a made-up word.)  Though, clearly it isn’t full-proof.  Maybe the problem was that I made the foolish choice to take my camera complete with big heavy zoom lens this time.  (Won’t ever take a camera again.  And because I am right now remembering that someone asked how I protect my camera:  I use Pelican cases)  Or maybe it was that the flies were biting and I had to spend a lot of time slapping them off my arms and legs.

As much as I do love this new water world of mine, kayaking isn’t going to save my soul, if you know what I mean.  But paddling around in the water does give me some time to think things over.  On Saturday, I told Jonny that sometimes I feel so oppressed by a heaviness that seems to be rooted in my desire to do a good job raising our family, and that my failings in this department are so evident that it just crushes me.  He suggested that my very best (perfection in my mind) might not be necessary.  That maybe I just need to focus on doing it without holding myself to a unreasonable standard.  I am human after all.  I can’t be perfect.

I am reminded (yet again) of St. Therese of Lisieux and her “little way” and what an important message she has for the tired mother whose work never ends, the mom whose job is never finished.  It’s not what you do, how perfectly you do it, or whether you finish even, but where your heart is in the process.  I struggle because I really love to complete things.  I like to see results.  But so often I am drowning in laundry and my kids are fighting again.  Clearly, the performance mentality I am struggling with is not going to work for me.  And really, what is that about anyway?  I am afraid that at the heart of it, I fall into a pattern of serving myself, rather than my family and even worse, rather than God.  I just want to clean a room and have it stay that way.  I want to teach my kids a lesson and see them take it to heart.  I want to go somewhere as a family and not have kids fighting over who sits where because they are all so kind and generous with each other (because I am doing such a phenomenal job of raising them thank you very much-ha!)  Thankfully, God isn’t demanding to see results:  perfection in housework or even mothering, he’s just asking me to do these things with love.  As long as I am striving for the unattainable, and for the wrong reasons, I am going to find it difficult to love.  I need to focus on the heart behind my every task, rather than the finished product, or how well it is done.  I need to accept the fact that I can’t parent perfectly.  I need to get back to doing small things with love.  And hence, the name of this old blog of mine.  The reminder in my face of the lesson I can’t seem to live consistently.  It’s not the product, but the process.  I was not made for performance, or perfection of task, but for love.  Just do the next thing, don’t worry about doing it well so much as doing it with love.  Okay, Ginny?  You got that? Love.