Keys, Mothering, and More of the Same Old Magic

I walked down the road this morning in clear, cool air, Charley at my heels.  Greeted a neighbor, checked the mail (just flyers).  Ho, hum.  My house keys clinked in my hand as I shifted the leash.

Keys.  I've never been any good at unlocking doors, and our mailbox lock is particularly sticky.  I have stood at many a door, jamming in a key, turning the wrong way, rattling the doorknob. We lose a lot of keys at our house; usually we find them again a week later, stuffed in a jacket pocket or lying in the bottom of a shoe. This morning as I walked along, I suddenly thought, Am I just stumbling around in the darkness with the wrong set of keys?  Is this the reality of my life?!  Dramatic, I know, but indicative of my doubtful state of mind this morning.  Maybe it's because I'm edging up on forty, but lately I've been at turns happy about my career and then slammed with misgivings.

If I'm honest, I think the whole "Am I Enough?" thing started when I decided to stay home with my first daughter.  Emphasis on decided.  I wanted to stay home with Merry more than anything, and it surprised me.  I always thought I'd work and parent part time (and the secret is, whether you're working 'outside the home' or not, parenting is always a full-time job).

So when I was still in my mid-twenties, I went from the bustle of full-time work to the wide, lonely days of parenthood.  Suddenly, during dinner parties and gatherings of my husband's colleagues (mostly professors), I felt as though someone had stuffed a sock into my mouth.  A dirty baby sock.  One of many that I'd pick up over the next fourteen years.

"What do you do?" people would ask me.  I would struggle to find a good reply. "Well, this morning, I cleaned two poopy diapers, and one was really a doozy, you know?  And then I ate cold leftover mac and cheese while I watched "Kipper the Dog."  Have you seen the episode where Tiger goes down the hill on the sled?  It's hilarious."

You remember how it was--always a mess somewhere.  Here's Beatrix getting into it six years ago!

Eventually I started to say, "I'm a writer," which was true, or later, "I'm a newspaper columnist," which was also true, but in a way, felt as equally as limiting as saying "I'm a mom," especially because it was always followed by the question, "So what have you published?"  To me, my accomplishments felt paltry compared to what I thought I should be doing.  First book by thirty.  That goal seemed imminently achievable. . .when I was 21.  When I was 21, my proverbial key chain was full, clinking merrily at my side as I forged ahead to unlock any number of doors.

Even now, at this point in my writing, I thought I would have accomplished more.  Martin reminds me that I've accomplished plenty while bringing up three girls and doing odd jobs here and there. That's nice, but sometimes it doesn't make the knife twinge less sharply.  This twinge leads to a plethora of other self-admonishments, a whole list of why, why, why didn't you? that suck my energy and turn my good life into a heap of ashes.

The world was so beautiful this morning but all I could think of was all the keys I've lost and all the doors I should have walked through.

I didn't have to think of anything but myself since I know this walk well.  I could probably stumble down these roads and sidewalks in my sleep.  I've walked the same route hundreds of times, just as I've put kids to bed, made lunches, driven to sports practice, turned up to write at my computer. . .thousands of times.  Routine.

I've heard people argue that routine drains a thing of meaning.  Why would you go to the same place twice?  Why not go somewhere new?  Look at those people repeating those words like robots.  They have no meaning anymore.  Or in my case, Why aren't you out in the living, breathing world of success and paychecks instead of doing these same things--loading the dishwasher, laundry, walking, writing--over and over again to no great success?

And here's the truth that we all know so well--ironically, showing up to do the same thing over and over again is hard.  It takes discipline.  It is lonely and unrecognized and it can make you feel like a failure.

Routine.  The same things, over and over again.  You show up every day and you do them.

But occasionally, the miraculous happens.  Mundane routine turns into ritual.

As I walked down the same roads, the same sidewalks, thinking of my sameness, something happened.  The red rhododendron on the corner happened.  The deep purple iris by the telephone pole happened.  The freshly-laid mulch by the Mormon Church wafted a deep-down lovely earth smell.  A dogwood flower lay at my feet, and above my head, a whole choir of white blooms chorused.  My feet and the dog's paws landed on the sidewalk and lifted again in wonderful rhythm.  Everywhere, even on bare sticks, flowers bloomed.   The cacophony in my head simmered to a sweet bubble of gratitude, wonder, awe.

That same magic--when routine turns to sacred ritual--happens to me as I parent.  I show up to do the same things, to say the same words that, when I've repeated them 100 times in a day, make me feel like a lunatic: Be nice to your sister.  Look both ways.  Stop whining.  And then suddenly, magic happens, and washes over me, and I know that what I do is eternally worthwhile, deeply sacred.

This morning when I walked out my front door, I stepped into the beyond.  Grant you, I was just covering the same territory I had so many times before, but I believe that's the point.  I showed up for my walk just as I was, filled with questions and unrest.  And I received my answer and it was not the answer I sought but it was more than enough:  Look around you in humble gratitude.  The most meaningful things are given freely, not bought.  Love, beauty, trust, community.  Remember.

I look down into my hand, and my key ring has less clink than it did when I was young and full of my own promise, when I had so many keys I didn't know which door to try first.  I have fewer keys now, but the keys that lie there in my palm are so solid, so heavy.  They lead to doors I have seen and touched many times before, that I love with all my heart, love so much it's almost painful: doors of friendship, love, trust, grief, joy.  Doors to real life in all its complexities and all its wonder.  And I can find my way in the dark.  I've found my way so many times before.

So today, let me implore you to show up for your walk.  Come just as you are.  Kneel down and tie your kid's shoe like you have so many times before. Stand before the blank page, the blank canvas.  Let your tongue offer the same prayers you have offered a thousand times, the songs you have sung too many times to remember.  Show up with the noise in your head and your heart full of questions.  Step into the familiar and receive your blessing.