1000 Thoughts Before Breakfast

When I can’t do work in a focused way to create something visible, everything goes wibbly-wobbly. Which is just another way of saying, “Children make me crazy.”
Before kids I was definitely a “Self-A-Holic.” When my uneasy bits reared up (which is always) and told me that life is mostly empty, short, strangely essential, and weirdly meaningless… When I woke up realized we only get one of these, but it’s really really hard to know what to do with it… I didn’t pick up a bottle to drown the confusion. I tamped it all down with work. If I was efficient, focused, intelligent, and strategic, I could make something out of my one effervescent life. Then it would be worth something. Then waking up in the morning for 80-some-odd years would make sense. I needed the pillar of my own creative power to rise up and serve as a touchstone for my vacuous sense of unease with the world.
And then I had children.
Which, they say, is the most significant thing you can do…
Which is probably true, actually, but that makes me feel twitchy.
The constancy and impermanence of all the things we do to raise children is destabilizing. Every morning the same endless needs rise up to be met and then pass away invisibly into time. 
A whole life can be poured out in half-eaten breakfasts. A whole life can be measured out in beds made and unmade and made and unmade. Little sock seams and spilled milk and time fillers and bickering and microscopic booboo kissing. This becomes the texture of time itself, and I start to say things like, “Everything is meaningless” and “What’s the point.” 
A whole existence can be unspooled into the tapestry of humanity. One little life in a long line of DNA. Maybe that was always the thing that mattered. Somehow the stuff we do on top of it wasn’t the point. Even though it felt like it. I feel like i’m pouring myself out into the gene pool. And right now I’m in the deep end.
To survive, I have had to “put down the bottle” of Self and understand the texture of time differently. My life isn’t a fragile thread slipping through scrambly fingers at warp speed, barely holdable. My challenge isn’t to grab it and make it into something that dignifies my own worth. Nope. It is not so lonely. It is not so desperate. We are being woven together.
One thread of time on top of another, our lives are being united into a story much bigger and beyonder than a Self-a-Holic like me. When I lay my small thread into a great united tapestry of threads stretching forward and backward through time and lashed to the heart of God (wherever he may be) I surrender small me for bigger we. I think this is a more accurate view of the world. I think this is a more reasonable way to live.
So I lay it mindfully. I lay it with as much love as I can muster. I know that it is tiny and dull by itself. I know it is only a gasp, a lurch, a fumble, a spark. But I believe that it is essential in the tapestry. Because we hold each other together. And everything is beautiful by and by. Breakfast upon breakfast upon breakfast, world without end, amen.

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