I decide to brew another cup of tea and sip for longer than usual this morning. Nibbling at the remaining, crusty edges of my toast, I glance at the second-hand clock on the kitchen wall, its hands pointing precisely at the nine and the one; a moment of anxiety tumbles in my gut. Should I still be sitting here? Shouldn’t I be showering or starting up the laundry? But the teapot whistles, the moment passes; and I hear Eliot’s voice again:
And indeed there will be time,
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.*
I am comforted by Eliot’s declaration that there will be time enough for the visions and revisions of our lives; that perhaps I don’t need to worry I won’t get it all figured out in time – that somehow, I’ll miss the boat of my purpose, that my ambitions will go sailing off without me, leaving me on the shores of regret. I am the type to wonder stuff like, what if I die a sudden, unexpected death – a disease or an accident – before I’ve launched the myriad of dreams waiting in the field of my soul, like little hot air balloons? I wonder this because I want my existence to matter; I want to contribute something meaningful to the world. I wonder it because I have ambitions and ideas simmering in my soul. I wonder it because the tedious work of life seems to swallow me up whole on many a day. And on many a night, with the kids finally in bed, housework sort of done, the granola bagged, I collapse in an exhausted heap with the distinct feeling of having been chewed up and spit out by the ever-yawning mouth of a day’s work – leaving little time or energy for tending to dreams and visions; little time, in fact, for me.
But as I consider Eliot’s idea of time, rather than an unforgiving, straight line, like a ruler-drawn timeline, Eliot’s version seems more undulating, perhaps like a sound wave, with lines traveling upward in ambition and triumph, joy and clarity, followed by lines that slope downward into difficulty, defeat, confusion or despair. In Eliot’s world, time is more forgiving; it holds all of the “hundred indecisions” and the “revisions and visions” of our lives; it leaves room for all of the figuring out we must inevitably do. As human beings, we unfold and expand; we twist and we turn, we are upside down and right side up, at any given time, as we the do the work of figuring out our own existence.
Consider this: each of us, adults and children alike, emerged from the red-dark of a womb somewhere at our own distinct moment in time. We emerged into a wonderfully complex world of choice, with the chance to leave our own unique legacy. As parents, the moments we have to pursue our visions and dreams as separate human beings, can feel far and few between, whether we work outside the home, in it – or both. Though sacrifice is a large and natural component of being a parent, I don’t believe parenting has to consume all of our individual aspirations (though it quite easily can). Three kids later, I’ve come to believe in a life of balance. I have learned to invite my children into my dreams; and when I do, their small eyes glimmer with the anticipation of their own dreams being realized one day. I know for some, raising children is a satisfying purpose in itself. For myself, I don’t believe anything that I ever do will be as important as helping to shape and support the lives of the three human extraordinary human beings in my care. I consider the work of raising my boys none other than a sacred privilege (as well as a vital aspect of my personal legacy). Yet, I believe I was born for other things, too.
Though I believe whole-heartedly in the balance I speak of, the raw truth is that a balanced life feels unattainable at times. How can a balance be achieved when there are so many competing priorities? It’s a complicated, illusive, if not impossible equation – one with infinite numerals: life-partner, children, parents, extended family, co-workers, bosses, teachers, and friends; chores, meals, housekeeping, bills, emails, errands and the maintenance of everything we own; career (which has a list of its own); finances; passions, talents and hobbies; health, exercise, sleep and leisure; school, church, community, citizenship…Add what you will to the list, but how do we arrange such numerals in a way that equals a balanced equation? How do we arrive at an answer that feels right? While I don’t think there is a neat equation, or a neat, round number answer, I am compelled to keep trying at it. Perhaps it is in our very efforts that we arrive at little square roots of satisfaction, fractions of perfection, integers of delight...
In all of my efforts so far, (and I am a mere 8 ½ years in with much to learn yet) I have reached only one conclusion: if I try to take myself out of the equation entirely, it doesn’t work. The beautiful irony of it is, that in pursuing an equation where I fit in – where I take time out to cultivate the separate human being that I am – I am not only happier, but am able to approach my roles as diaper changer, dinner cooker, floor sweeper, homework helper, grocery shopper, granola maker, etc., with renewed energy and efficiency. After a morning, for example, of writing or a photographing, or even a simple hike in the woods, my life energy seems to mysteriously multiply – like a numeral base with a sudden exponent. I am often – suddenly – splendidly – three times my very self.
So for now, I’ll continue my random practice of abandoning piles of hot laundry to write a poem; or leave the kitchen floor behind, spotted and dull, to capture on camera the seductive way a light body has laid itself on the window sill. I’ll keep at the revisions of my life, hoping to arrive, little by little, at a satisfying sense of proportion. While some days have a feeling of harmony and symmetry, others feel disparate and tangled; and that’s just the way of it. Our time on earth is not a straight line, but a gorgeous, unfurling mystery.
How else to end but with Eliot, who urges me on in wandering the streets of my soul – and of my life; who reassures us all that there is time for doing so:
Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.*
*from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock
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t is a lovely echo of the larger theme of my post.
