I come to this space sometimes and I wonder what it really is. I write things and then I delete them. I am always so impatient with process. It was a homeschooling blog. I had privacy concerns. The children stopped homeschooling. Sometimes I came here to write when it seemed like there were no other places where I had room. I have realised that when I write I can learn to be still. This is a place of stillness sometimes.
In the twelve years I have been a parent I have largely abandoned my other place of stillness. Drawing.
I had been drawing for as long as I could remember. But when I had children it became difficult to have art materials within easy access. Or to leave unfinished work sitting around in living and playing spaces. And perhaps this has been a great blessing because it is through having one creative route taken away, I learned that I have another option, I can write.
Writing is immediate and I write about everything. Family, soul, travel, art, Islam. I write for myself. Sometimes when I have emptied myself of words or soothed that sensation of flowing then I can sit quiet and I can listen. I listen and what I hear is that which we label God, Source, Divine.
But I turn forty soon and I can’t help but apply the standards of my culture to myself and question ‘what have I achieved?’
What has this self done? How has it performed? What does it have to show for itself?
And writing becomes less about stillness and flow and more about something I need to utilise to prove myself as worthy.
There is that voice that says you are an intelligent woman but what have you done with yourself?
And what I have done is not really quantifiable. It is not measured in awards and degree’s and exhibitions and books written. When I sit down to write a resume it is largely a work of creative fiction. I worked seriously for only two years of my adult life. I studied but only at undergraduate level. For twelve years I have parented at home. I have overcome all kinds of silent obstacles but because I choose to still overcome them I cannot add them to my repertoire of achievement.
I am not one of those women who turns her home into a sanctuary of domestic perfection. I don’t believe it is possible without selling your soul to a fantasy. Clean houses and three course meals are so often a performance that hides a much more bitter reality. But if I am not one of those women then what am I?
It strikes me that these models we have, the domestic goddess and the career woman, they are fantasies of womanhood and strength. Unachievable, unattainable fantasies. We are forced always to live to a standard that is not our own.
I remind myself that I do not need to achieve anything at all. It does not matter that my life cannot be measured and applauded.
What matters is the joy in the details.
If there is time to write and draw then it is for the love of it.
I do not need to measure my home life by unattainable standards. My children require my presence, a full, budding and sometimes gleeful presence. Unburdened by unreasonable expectations. It is to choose to make granola when there is clean washing all over the floor awaiting folding and to delight in the aroma spreading through the house. It is to sit together and read stories out loud with the full awareness that the car has become a mobile tip. It is to get out the paints and not to worry that in three hours I will be peeling potatoes amongst upturned pallets and images of rainbows.
It is to take half an hour to write five hundred words and find that place of stillness.
I guess this is what turning forty is, doing it my way. Not selfishly, not without concern for others. But with the full awareness and experience to know where the life flows. I may not have achieved anything but I know this.
And this is everything.