Scribbles - Day 13

Hidden among my own scribbles in my journal there are markings not made by me.  Imposed over my words are drawings and letters, words and lines written in the hand of others.  Along the margins on many pages are letters shaky in their formations, spelling out an idea that only a child's mind can fathom.

My name is imprinted across the cover, but it's inside where the love and hope and joys and cheers, where the fears and hurts and tears mingle to paint a picture of the heart of me.  These are the parts of me that only one other truly knows.  I pour the words out in ink or lead in an attempt to make sense of all I feel and think.

Although the journal belongs to me, my children have felt compelled to insert themselves into it with me.  Oh how annoyed I felt that first time I noticed the markings and scribbles.  I felt as though a part of me had been exposed and handled carelessly.  Turning the pages, I came to the back cover where I found this:

I realized then that they weren't defacing something of mine; they were sharing something of mine.  They understood that this book was mine to write in and capture my thoughts because we had talked about it.  I had explained why I wrote in my journal and had encouraged them to do the same if they wanted, giving them journal books of their own to doodle or scribble in.  But even still, they wanted to share what was mine.  I have a well founded suspicion that all of them have written in it.

Now as I reread the words I've written, my dreams are forever intertwined with these amazing little people in a tangible way.  When I see their childish lines and letters, I treasure even more the input they add to my dreams and thoughts.  It warms my heart that they so desired to be a part of me, a part that they saw was important to me.

I want to teach my children so many, many things.  I hope they remember me writing in my journal, sitting with pen in hand recording my dreams.  I want them to see every area of my life as an example.  I want them to know the value I placed on doing something that was important to me.  I want them to know it's okay to do something just because you want to, not just because it makes sense.  I want them to follow their hearts and be the best people they are made to be.

Click here to see the rest of my Write 31 Days series:  Simple Gems

Burdened With Inadequacy

There is a little piece of truth I hide from myself.  I keep it covered over just beyond the edge of my mind.  Once in awhile, when I'm not careful, it pops up and forces me to see it.  It's only there for a fleeting moment before I avert my gaze and cover it once again so I don't have to face it.

To be candid, if I face this truth full on, if I take it out and examine it, then I will not only have to do something about it, I will have to admit that I have failed.  And one of my biggest fears is failure.

This little piece of truth is not really all that little.  And I'm pretty sure that more than likely what I try to hide from myself is not at all hidden from anyone that knows me.  It's definitely not hidden from God.

But yet, I continue to deceive myself that as long as I don't look at this truth full on, it is not so.

The truth?  I cope.  

That's it.  I cope.  I spend each day getting things done that can no longer be left undone.  I feed people because they require sustenance to live.  I get children up and out the door because they have some place they have to be.  I attend appointments to keep us healthy or looking civilized.  I work because it is income.  I volunteer because it is the one last thread I am trying to hold on to that connects me to a world outside of my home.

Somehow, most things get done.  But they aren't usually done until they have to be done.  And then, they usually aren't done as well as I would want them to be done.   

And that is where I feel I fail.  Because I would like to do this thing called motherhood well.  I would like to do this project of homemaking well.  But I don't.  I dream, I plan, I attempt.  I fail.

I would like to have myself and my family and my home organized with a working routine established.  But I don't.  I would like to have all our meals planned ahead so I'm not scrambling by 5 pm.  But I don't.  I would like to have a cleaning schedule I follow faithfully so I am not up late the night before someone is coming over clearing piles and vacuuming.  But I don't. 

As I struggle with this seemingly endless burden of wallowing in unaccomplished failure, I have begun to ask myself a few questions.  Questions like, where did I get the idea of what our home and life should look like?  Who am I trying to be like?  Do the things I feel I should be doing better truly need changing?  Where does this burden of inadequacy and failure stem from?

I have no answers yet, maybe I never will for some of my questions, but I have started on a journey of trying to uncover who I am vs who I think I should be.  I have a feeling it's not going to be an easy journey.

And I really don't think I am alone.  I think feelings of inadequacy and failure is something that a lot of women struggle with.  Maybe if we stopped comparing ourselves to one another and supported each other instead we might just reshape our worlds.

On Teacups and Friendships

Life's busyness doesn't always leave room to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.  Drinking tea from a proper teacup and saucer.  Enjoying dainty treats made by hands other than your own.  Laughing.  Savouring the moments with friends made special through shared life-stories, hurts, triumphs, fears, laughter and joy.  Deepening friendships newly made.

With the many to-dos waiting to be done and the varied lists of needs yet to be fulfilled, it's too easy to get caught up in the getting-it-all-done.  It's too easy to be caught up in bearing daily life burdens alone.  It's too easy to mistakenly think we are each the only one with these many demands on our abilities, on our resources of inner strength, on our oh-so-precious time.

But it was in the enjoyment of a tea party amidst a roomful of women of all ages and stages of life where I was reminded that I am not so alone as I sometimes delude myself into believing.  It was in sitting with my dear friends that I was refreshed after a day made long by my own unkind, unprompted emotions.  It was in the sharing of burdens when I was nudged to remember I am not the only one facing these daily struggles of motherhood and cooking and loving and cleaning and dreaming and praying for these families we are entrusted with.

It was a tea party with fancy hats, delicate teacups and saucers, a fun photo booth and friendships.  We smiled.  We laughed.  We talked.  We shared.  A few of us even shed a tear as we listened to the life story of a woman made wise with embracing life as it unraveled before her.  A story permeated with her trust that God would see her through both difficult and joyful times.

The day began with bearing emotional encumbrances alone.  The day ended with a hot cup of tea infused with gentle reminders that I am not alone, that I am not the only one traversing this road of motherhood and womanhood.  

Enjoying a cup of tea is all about slowing down the hurry's and the have-tos of the day to enjoy the moment.  It is savouring the delicate aroma wafting from the warm amber liquid before that first lovely sip of infused flavour.  Mingling our hearts and time with our friends infuses our joys so the harshness of life is lessened.