Quietly Sipping Tea

Uh-oh, I’m having a What’s it all for? moment. I drag myself to the café this morning, commit to edit the manuscript. I open page one. Ugh is not quite right. You’d have to add rolling of the eyes – me to myself – that is always more humiliating than if someone else did it. I flip pages. God. Jeez. I can’t believe you said that! Who cares?

I close the book. Catch my breath. I talk to myself: Can we have a civil conversation here? Could you just look at it with a thread of fairness? Come on!

I put on my feel sorry for myself hat: If you can’t even edit your own manuscript then what are you working on the website for? Why blog at all? Are all these efforts simply narcissistic ramblings? Does anyone care how many ways you feel amazement and fury?

I put on my feminist hat: Right, this is exactly how mothers feel – as if mothering were a suboptimal choice; indeed, that writing about motherhood is somehow frivolous, trite, and trivial. Frustration with editing is the awkwardness of embracing exactly what you’ve been taught to resist: that mothering is a sacred act. It deserves a voice, your voice, even though you might feel shame in sharing the revelation.

I put on the wise woman hat: Before I can think, she removes my hat, takes my hands and says, "Come now, my dear, let’s sit here together. Allow me to do the reading. You rest. Do you need some tea? Warm enough? Now, where are the plants? Let’s ask the Lavender to assist us here, Jasmine and Rosewood, too. Close your eyes and be still. Wait until the wind settles, your teachers and all your allies are just around the corner. Wait for their counsel. You don’t have to do this work alone. Find your prayer and speak it now."