What is it about Mondays that makes me feel like I must scurry about and clean and wash clothes and sweep up the weekend's crumbs? I've chosen to blame it on my parents who were amazingly industrious and creative and from growing up in the 50's where woman's work was never done. Kitchen floors were like mirrors, pillows always puffed. A mom's duties were scheduled like clockwork.
So, this morning, I decided to take matters out of the hands of yesteryear and fast forward them to today. In my many lifetimes, I have worked outside of the home, labored inside the home, got wrinkly raising three kids. I even kept up with a gregarious husband until his death in '98. Now I am the keeper of the hearth and home, breadwinner and the single grandmother of eight. I suppose I may be called a widow but I despise that word and choose instead the term, Grammy, for that's what my grandkids named me.
Now I get it, women's work is, indeed, never done. At least, not on this side of heaven's door.
I ask myself, "what matters most, what's critical today," not "which pile of laundry do I pick up first?" The weeds can wait, the wicked witch of the Guilties must expire.
So, with matters in my own hands, I can prioritize and jumble up the chores the way I want. Is that being irresponsible? Absolutely not! Some good things come with age and rapt judgments pump creative energy into my step. So, I pull my new netbook across my lap along with my scribbly journal. Most importantly, from my bulging "finish" file, I retrieve the story I am writing. I pour another cup of coffee, prop up my Nike-clad feet and get down to business. I brush off the dust from my desk, push back the bills, yank my hair into a pony tail and begin to pray. (I always pray when I feel incredibly outrageous and unpredictable.)
The papers of my story were unclipped and curled, showing they have been neglected way too long. I pulled them to me and held them for a moment or two, in some kind of poetic pose of apology I then slapped on my editor's hat and got to work. The pruning must begin.
"Not so bad for a rebellious grandmother," I whispered to my beloved Golden, Hobbs. "Not bad at all,"I thought as I reread the story of a straggly piece of brown fur that made its way from China to his new home, 1600 Pennsylvania USA where he becomes the darling of the White House.
"Brown Bear Goes To America" becomes my focus. The sticky dishes and stinky sink will have to wait until tomorrow.
Surely, Tuesday will find me on my knees in scrub-form. Well. that all depends how close Brown Bear gets to America.
A word To The Wise - Bulwark - A barricade, buffer, wall or fence. - - - - Consider the Bulwarks in our creative lives that keep us from reaching our goals and dreams, like laziness, fear, inept time control. I say, let's ban together and smack down the walls and barricades, even if we must take a few detours.
Quotable Quotes: "Where there is industry, (energetic devotion to a task) there remains blisters and bruises, stains from hot tears." lw
