Finding bliss

By the end of last week, I realized that despite my success at keeping things going around here since we returned from vacation, I had carved myself a pretty deep rut of mediocrity. I wasn't satisfied--deeply and importantly satisfied--with my work.

I couldn't see why all of the laundry, cleaning, cooking, holding, loving, teaching and nurturing was worthwhile, when I just had to do it all over again the very next day. In general, I love my life and would never trade it for even the most rewarding career, but last week I suddenly forgot why.

This is the plight of any homemaker from time to time, but it bothers me to feel this way. I'm not OK with it. So come Friday, as I faced the coming week without my partner to help lift me out of my funk at the end of each day, I had the sense enough to reach out to some friends for help.

Some of you offered thoughts through comments here on the blog, I vented to some of my girlfriends and I also turned the pages of Women's Day and discovered an article there about this very topic (they write and re-write this article every month with only slightly varying twists, but still it was worth my attention). I prayed for some light, too.

No hard and fast life lessons came my way as a result of my reaching out, but I kept hearing people pointing me in the same vague direction. I felt a strong encouragement to find myself a little bit of bliss--not a break from the monotony, mind you. Running away offers temporary, albeit necessary relief, but I needed to find contentment in the rituals I still have to move through when I get back home.

The writer of the Women's Day article suggested doing something you might have done as a child that gave you pure, unrestricted joy. Specifically, she said to choose something that you did as an older child but became too embarrassed to do once your self-conscious teen years hit.

Dozens of things came to mind: Sprinting across an open farm field to the river, then jumping in sweaty and breathless for a cleansing dip; picking fuchsia sweet peas and juicy apples in an overgrown orchard, then plopping down in knee-high grass to devour their sweetness; spinning around in circles in the backyard until I get so dizzy I collapse and gaze at cartoon-character clouds while the earth spins violently around me.

Alas, I'm ridiculously pregnant and even if I had the physical capacity to run and cartwheel and flop, there aren't a lot of open fields and orchards here on the concrete grid.

So I did the next best thing: I took my children to the beach.

As we set out on the two-block venture to the shore, I let L and C choose our pace and I followed their lead. They are expert bliss-followers. About 20 steps from our gate, they each scooped up a foot-long seed pod from beneath a tree along the sidewalk. These became walking sticks and poking tools for the remainder of our journey. I chose one, too.

C stopped to smell every rose, flowering shrub or cluster of bougainvillea vines. He complimented each blossom with an: "Mmm." So I joined him, too.

L counted spiders. We watched one spin its web for a solid five minutes before crossing the street to the ocean. L and C marveled vocally at the tiny builder's elegant carpentry skills. I did, too.

When we hit the beach, I followed a few steps behind brother and sister as they ditched their shoes and darted for the dunes. They scrambled up mountains of sand, then shimmied back down on bellies with giggles and screeches. I climbed with them, then found a comfortable place to sit and stretch out while I watched them.

I closed my eyes and smelled the warm ocean breeze and felt the dense, salty morning mist on my skin. I burrowed into the sand a little and played along with a game of "Close your eyes mama!"

While I waited with my lids squeezed shut for giggling siblings to take turns surprising me with feathers, stones, shells and dried kelp bits, I giggled, too. I felt whole and content. It was blissful.

I'm still searching for these moments each day. They don't come easily all of the time. I'm continually frustrated by the mundane and I can't stand hearing myself remind my children for the hundredth time to be respectful, to calm down or to please eat your meal. I can't change those aspects of my job. But I can let myself laugh at C's jokes or smile and swell with pride when L learns something new.

I may be asked to print out a dozen more princess coloring pages today, just like every other day, but maybe today I'll grab the crayons and tackle one, too.

And when I sing the Muppets' theme song to get C through his half-a-dozen hand-washings, I'll sing it in a really silly voice. Maybe today we'll laugh together more.