Saturdays are hard for me.
Usually, by noon, I'm teetering on the pit of depression. I think some people regard me as an artsy-free spirit-devil may care sort of person with little to no organization and--heck and hail!--no need for it. But that is not true. Take away my routine, my tight little minutes like apples in my palm, and I drift. . .I'm no good at lingering over a long breakfast, flipping pages of a magazine and occasionally hopping up to help my children splatter paint on a canvas. No, on Saturdays I turn into a real grouch, griping at the kids, starting chores I never finish as the bitterness takes root in my sorry heart: NOBODY does anything around here. What do they think it is, the weekend?
The past couple weekends have been better, though, thanks to my friend's music class at 10, followed by a creative writing workshop with Martin, me, and four to five girls. Today, that took us to about 1:30. There are many things I could have done after that time, mind you, but I didn't do much. The sky, a deep grey, dumps rain that soaks one to the bone. I could have driven somewhere, but I couldn't make myself leave the house. I could have folded the laundry, but that's no fun. So I sat at the dining room table, reading recipes I'll never cook and looking at sewing instructions for slipcovers that I'll never sew and looking at slipcovers for sale that I'll never buy because they're too ugly. Martin sat with me, doing much of the same, I dare say, though he was prince enough to help Elspeth with several frustrating, unrewarding projects.
I finally stood up and started cooking chicken curry, and those warm spices and onions sizzling in oil lifted my spirits considerably, even as the sky darkened and the rain continued. Martin dragged himself three feet to the kitchen, where he admitted, "I've been sad all day." We clarified that "all day" meant "all afternoon," and then we realized it was because we'd done nothing profitable or meaningful during these few dreary hours.
Then he told me about Leslie Marmon Silko, author of Ceremony, and how she wrote the book: in a rainy place with a grant from the NEA, in an empty office with a view, as others took care of tiny boy. Oh, did I mention the Japanese restaurant where she walked every noon for a bowl of noodles? Martin told me this as an inspiration, but by the time he was done I wanted to fling the chicken curry and all my patience and endurance with it across the room.
There's a purpose to this entry, which I will get to in the next post. But I'm out of time. . .look for my conclusions about all of this in a few days, if I have the time. . . .
Usually, by noon, I'm teetering on the pit of depression. I think some people regard me as an artsy-free spirit-devil may care sort of person with little to no organization and--heck and hail!--no need for it. But that is not true. Take away my routine, my tight little minutes like apples in my palm, and I drift. . .I'm no good at lingering over a long breakfast, flipping pages of a magazine and occasionally hopping up to help my children splatter paint on a canvas. No, on Saturdays I turn into a real grouch, griping at the kids, starting chores I never finish as the bitterness takes root in my sorry heart: NOBODY does anything around here. What do they think it is, the weekend?
The past couple weekends have been better, though, thanks to my friend's music class at 10, followed by a creative writing workshop with Martin, me, and four to five girls. Today, that took us to about 1:30. There are many things I could have done after that time, mind you, but I didn't do much. The sky, a deep grey, dumps rain that soaks one to the bone. I could have driven somewhere, but I couldn't make myself leave the house. I could have folded the laundry, but that's no fun. So I sat at the dining room table, reading recipes I'll never cook and looking at sewing instructions for slipcovers that I'll never sew and looking at slipcovers for sale that I'll never buy because they're too ugly. Martin sat with me, doing much of the same, I dare say, though he was prince enough to help Elspeth with several frustrating, unrewarding projects.
I finally stood up and started cooking chicken curry, and those warm spices and onions sizzling in oil lifted my spirits considerably, even as the sky darkened and the rain continued. Martin dragged himself three feet to the kitchen, where he admitted, "I've been sad all day." We clarified that "all day" meant "all afternoon," and then we realized it was because we'd done nothing profitable or meaningful during these few dreary hours.
Then he told me about Leslie Marmon Silko, author of Ceremony, and how she wrote the book: in a rainy place with a grant from the NEA, in an empty office with a view, as others took care of tiny boy. Oh, did I mention the Japanese restaurant where she walked every noon for a bowl of noodles? Martin told me this as an inspiration, but by the time he was done I wanted to fling the chicken curry and all my patience and endurance with it across the room.
There's a purpose to this entry, which I will get to in the next post. But I'm out of time. . .look for my conclusions about all of this in a few days, if I have the time. . . .
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