Do you ever feel like Sisyphus?
He’s the guy in Greek mythology that was sentenced to push a boulder up a hill for the rest of his life. Every time that he came near to reaching the summit, the gods would merely roll it back to the bottom so that he was never free from the work but never finished and he must always labour in the full knowledge of the futility of his work.
If that sounds familiar, luv, me, too.
When I’m picking up for the eleventy-billionth time, when every one needs to eat and it seems like we just ate, when we are wondering what to do with our one wild and precious life that sure isn’t feeling very wild or precious right about now, when the laundry is piled unfolded and someone spills their full glass of milk on the floor I just washed and the bickering and noise enters its second hour and the house is too hot and there isn’t much time for the things that I want to do on the day off, I feel like Sisyphus, futile, pushing a rock up a hill that will never summit.
(I know that you know that I love my life, that, most days, I flat-out enjoy it so I’m going to try very hard not to qualify this but yesterday, it all felt futile and my very skin prickled with resentment.)
I began to wonder if homeschooling was the right decision because boarding school sure looked good right about now.
But I made it through the too-hot day with my too-hot temper and at supper I was completely disarmed because every one said thank you and they meant it.
At night, we crawled into our bed and Evelynn woke up to nurse. Brian was propped up on his elbow watching us. She moves like a kitten when she’s nursing, her little fingers opening and closing on my skin, her milky elbows slowly turning to showcase every dimple, small sighs and groans breathing. Her long heavy lashes lay on her plump cheeks and I can feel the pull of her gathering everything she needs from my own imperfect self. I swear my heartbeat calms when my milk lets down and even my bones exhale.
“Oh, now that’s something you never want to forget,” my husband breathed into my hair, his eyes full on both of us laying on our sides towards each other.
And I have eleventy-billion of these moments a day too, seemingly small, times when my breath catches and I have no camera or pen nearby so I’m going to have to rely on my something in my soul remembering it forever because it’s a step up a mountain, a roll of the rock of my own stubbornness, and I don’t have any gods at the top, pushing me back to the bottom, laughing at my futile efforts.
No, there is welcome and release in the work of it, in the working of the muscles of selflessness and service, giving. The truth of it all is that I do have eleventy-billion chances in a day to choose love, to breathe out wonder, to love, to serve, to choose life and life more abundant, working out who I was meant to be all along and meeting something beautiful at every summit, never futile, “if anything matters, everything matters.”