As predicted, today is a snow day for the kids. Meaning, due to the Omicron variant’s rapid spread through our area, this week, the kids only went to school on Thursday, January 6th.
I expected no less. And, as Omicron makes its way through us like a brushfire, we will likely be back in remote learning for some period of time over the coming months. It’s fine.
Nothing is fine.
Managing the chaos of the last two years has forced a reckoning. I had constructed a life that fed my need to serve. After all, it feels good to be of service, and I’m good at it. But, when the conditions of life abruptly shifted, I needed an emergency remodeling job.
As an artist and educator, I serve my audience. That audience-service language is literally baked into the grant applications I encounter on repeat. Questions abound like, “Describe the audience you serve.” and “How does your work meet the specific needs of your audience?”
As a wife, I have all kinds of patriarchy-approved ways to serve my husband. And, I signed up for them because - patriarchy aside - I really do love to please my husband. And, most of the time, pleasing him pleases me.
As a mom, I am the logistical genius that keeps us scheduled, assigns transport, acts as nurse on duty, and makes food and clothing purchases to keep up with growing humans.
Not to mention my roles as head of housekeeping, laundry, and all the rest. I am good at all of these roles, damnit.
Except, when I’m not. I am not good at any of these roles during a pandemic. Defintely not during an extended pandemic. And, certainly not an extended pandemic with constantly shifting conditions.
In the tightly scheduled before times, I had precisely 9am-3:50pm to be an interdisciplinary artist sharing my methods and work with folx in all kinds of spaces and places. Then, at 4pm and beyond, I was a wife and mama. I found me time somewhere in there, too. When that world disappeared - and my acts of service became demands for service, with no clear borders or boundaries, I broke.
I became a ball of roiling resentment, frustration, and anger-fueled rage hurtling toward rock bottom holding sticks of dynamite in one hand and a lit match in the other.
The delicate system I had set up that allowed me to also serve myself was replaced by a dystopian nightmare. The right to pursue happiness applied to everyone but the covid cruise ship activities director: me.
In a world without any physical or emotional boundaries between work, family, and personal time, this mom’s ability to “have it all” collapsed. Exhausted and depleted, I slowly figured out how to slog through until now.
2020 was hell. 2021 was hell with hope: vaccines for all and return to normal (whatever that is) on the horizon! 2022 is starting out a lot like 2020. And, I cannot go back there.
But, here we are. And, so… I begin again. Again.
This time, I begin with a deep commitment to the root practices that keep me grounded and serve me. And, that’s it. No big proclamations. No bold statements of what I will accomplish. What happens will be the result of what I practice. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And, I will serve others. But, only when I can do so joyfully.
#walkwithjoy