Zen and the art of household maintenance

 The weekend arrives with a schedule of household tasks that never ceases. There is laundry, and cleaning, and tidying, and the procuring of groceries. Depending on the season, there could be shoveling the walk or mowing the lawn. A thousand tasks randomly volunteer and all of them combined amount to the bare minimum of life’s essential needs.

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And as much as these tasks seem mindless, I tend to think about them all the time.

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Or half the time, since I often get distracted midway through by the intersection of other chores.

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The drier door ajar; a broom left out near a pile of nature’s glitter tracked in on the shoes, left catawampus in the foyer; dishes, all clean and in analogous piles on the counter, are waiting to be lifted into their dwelling places in the cabinets above. The grass has grown gangly around the edges.

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Our halfway house. Everything is halfway finished.

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Not just in tasks, but in its structure as well.

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As I carry a basket of laundry into the bedroom, I catch sight of ancient blue painter’s tape curling from the edge of window trim as if for the first time …  and not every morning since we moved here sixteen years ago.

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One of these days, I tell myself, I will peel that off. Then I just half smile, knowing that this is a conversation I’ve had with myself before. I, of course, bargain in response that as soon as the tape is dislodged, the wall will need to be repainted and the moulding retaped.

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I like the smell of the things I am folding, fresh from the dryer and still warm. It signals emphatically that they are clean. I had selected the hamper over another, one I had washed and dried days ago, because I didn’t want to face all the wrinkles that would have unfurled.

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Those duds would need another ride through the tumble, this time under the fancy “steam setting” I rarely remember is an option. Or not. The menfolk, whose clothes I am laundering, are perfectly capable of using an iron if they should be bothered by the idea of walking around in the world looking like an unmade bed.

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When I go back for the next load, I notice the perfect footprints of a size-13 shoe on the still-drying floorboards. The map they make starts in the entryway and leads through the right side of the dining room into the kitchen, where they turn in front of the refrigerator and traipse back through the house on the left side.

For some reason that evades me, I do not become irate.  Perhaps the tracks reminded me of a different kind of sadness, the kind of footprints the dog stopped making last summer when she left us. I could dwell in that sadness forever, but I won’t. The mop is still standing in a full bucket, waiting for me to wring it out, douse the weeds with our work product, and call it a day.

Heavy hand, heavy head

 This week, the New York Times published a disturbing  investigative report about police use of force in Texas schools. The newspaper went through thousands of incidents where school-based police departments had employed “heavy-handed” tactics – violent physical takedowns, chemical irritants, and electric tasers – and found many that were in response to minor misbehaviors, often stemming from things such as dress code violations, student beefs, and not showing respect for elders and authority.  

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Multiple studies spanning the last decade often found that while police presence in schools correlates with a reduction in some crimes, there is also a marked increase in harsher punishments, many of them disproportionately meted out to minority students. Cases that would have been handled aptly in a principal’s office have a much greater chance of winding up in a court of law.

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The Times reporting also included a handful of nauseating videos that showed exceptionally egregious displays of physical abuse, some of which led to students’ – visibly a fraction of the size of the police in the scenes – suffering serious injuries, such as broken bones and concussions.

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Officials responding to the findings pointed to the need to keep schools safe; parents and school staff often praised police for intervening in violent fights, confiscating weapons, and  preventing would-be attacks.

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But what if our kids aren’t safer with police departments taking up residence in schools? Do we really think that disrespectful children will be anything other than harmed by being arrested for poor judgment? Should mouthing off be punishable by jail time? Do we truly want to accept a society that doesn’t want children to be bullies but has few qualms about them being beaten by police?

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A part of me doesn’t really want an answer to any of those questions because I know the sentiments of many from reading the comments sections. Too many of my neighbors believe other people’s kids deserve harsh treatment. Or, perhaps, only theirs are entitled to grace.

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Obviously, I don’t have an answer that will fix our ills. We can’t prevent every bad thing from befalling us. Regardless, there are things we can do that will give our kids a better experience.

It doesn’t mean we will be reading riot acts until we’re blue in the face. But it will be hard work just the same: It might even mean lecturing less and listening more. Building connections with individuals rather than drawing conclusions from intuition.

​We could start with modest changes in mindset. Instead of treating schools as if they were crime-ridden microcosms or major incubators of criminal potential, we set our sights on delivering on education.  

It means justice has to apply to all mistakes, not just our teens. And consequences for the tormentors should be equally applied, especially when those doing harm are elders and authorities.

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At the very least, we should be demanding more transparency. Schools with police presence should have community and civilian oversight. These incidents of brutality should be part of the public record, open to inspection, and every instance should be investigated independently.

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We should not lose sight of the value of justice, oversight, and the role education can play in creating a healthier society. Maybe we can lean more heavily on our humanity so we don’t feel as dependent on the heavy hand.

Do the opposite

 It’s easy to become maudlin these days. If we keep our eyes laser-focused, we can’t help but get overwhelmed by the never-ending stream of information that is as noxious as toxic sludge.

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It’s enough to make us ill.

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We have tune it out to some degree if we hope to stay sane; how could we get up in the morning and go to work or school, and work toward a future if we can’t imagine  there will be one?

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Yet, if we glaze over, or look away for too long, we run the risk of losing touch with our humanity and becoming numb just the same.

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Summer will be upon us soon, surrounding us in a dismal soup that might feel like the inside of a pressure cooker … without an escape valve for steam, we will have to deal with an explosion rather than a delightful stew.

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Of course, it can feel calming to scroll from reel to reel … watching whatever it is we’ve mindlessly ordered from the algorithm that seems to “float our boats,” as our parents might have scoffed. But by the time you realize you are watching a woman who lives alone in a big city — with no friends, and no social life — coming through the door wearing a new outfit, but doing the same things: hugging her cat, making dinner for one, and settling in for a quiet night. .. you have frittered away the better part of an hour or worse. You’ve wasted the best part of a good night’s rest.

Finding the right balance can feel as steady as a roller coaster.

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What other choice is there?

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Might as well practice joy.

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Find it out of thin air if you need to; take a deep breath when there is a gentle breeze, let it relax you just a titch. Smile when you feel the sun on your face, close your eyes and let your shoulders drop away from where they’ve been tensing around your ears.

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Might as well practice service.

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Start a conversation with an elder in the grocery store; make it your mission to notice when someone else is struggling, and to tell them how you plan to help, and let them accept. It can be as insignificant as reach for a can on the top shelf or striking up a conversation that isn’t about the price of chicken.  

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Might as well change your mind and let those new thoughts change your mindset.

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Approach something you’ve been struggling with from a different angle. Maybe even from the polar opposite view.

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We don’t have to convince others of our righteousness, we just have to confirm that what we “know to be true” has veracity to back it up.

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Remind ourselves that an understanding can change into a misunderstanding quietly as new facts emerge. We need to be ready to expand our thoughts, and not just retract the words.

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The heat is coming back, but we can survive it by making good use of breathing room.

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Be ready to inhale fire and exhale the chill. 

Enduring

 I had arrived early for a late lunch at the diner.

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As I sat at the table, waiting for my friend – a woman, like me, whose children were all of a sudden grown – I exhaled.  It was a spur-of-the-moment meal. The kind of thing we usually say we will do, but never schedule. Until one day, in some unspoken alignment brought together by random texts bearing silly jokes, we set a date and see it through.

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My stomach growled as I looked over the menu.  

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I would order the same thing I always order: Swiss cheese omelet with rye toast. No jam. Hot sauce, please. She has no usual. When my friend arrives, I know she will make a game-day decision.

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The server brings me coffee.

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When she walks in a few minutes later, the room will come to life. Her voice carries, as mine does, but unlike mine, she has a clear tone that has a distinct melody. No one would ever accuse her of being monotonous.

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I smile, thinking about all the ways her voice changes. Our conversations meander and overlap, the way good advice discourages. “Don’t answer their story with a similar story of your own,” the inconvenient narrator in my head tries to interject as I push forward with my response.

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The history of our friendship could be put into words and follow a chronology stemming from our children’s early education, but it wouldn’t be able to describe the things that make the friendship seem effortless that don’t also align with happenstance.

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We would talk, and laugh, and yell, and say things that make the neighboring tables blush. We swapped stories of how the kids are moving on, how the husbands are still the same, but somehow we are getting grumpier.

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We avoid talking about the things that are heavy or create anxiety because we have accepted these as problems beyond our control, so we commence in complaining about the things in our lives that we could change … even though the likelihood of us changing them is less than one iota.

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Time gets away from us, but not the same way it transformed our kids. We blinked here at the table, and it was nearing late afternoon; we blinked with our kids at a kindergarten assembly, and somehow they’d graduated from college.

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When the check comes, she reaches for it, over my objections. “A belated birthday gift,” she says matter-of-factly as she holds the curl of paper over her head, where I couldn’t reach if I jumped.

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I love her for that kind of mischief. And I vow that we shall meet again in a fortnight to celebrate hers.

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Being of the same “vibe” feels like an inadequate explanation as to why friendships like ours endure.  Perhaps the word “enduring” is the key since it could mean “long-lasting” or it could mean “long suffering.”

It is not lost on either of us that, regardless of how long we stretch between meetings, we are in the struggle together. And the conversation will continue as if it never ended the next time. Whenever that is.

A little motherly advice

However it is that we understand Mother’s Day … whether we celebrate, mourn, or bridle at the notion of yet another day commandeered by marketers to sell us things we probably don’t need and don’t want; it is once again upon us.

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And with it, my inbox overflows with classic gift suggestions like chocolate and flowers, perfect for delivery mere hours before day’s end, if you happen to be the offspring of the last-minute variety.

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Not that I’m complaining. Were they to ask — and they have despite an experiential clairvoyance that has had them preface all fact-finding queries with “and don’t tell me … —  “that I just want my children to be happy.”

“Might as well ask for world peace,” they retort … 

Which makes me wonder, again, if a good mother would just give a suggestion, something readily attainable. Or whether they would acknowledge the uncertainty?

The media constantly reminds us how unhappy our kids might be. How unhappy we are, too, as we dwell in the discord.  But can we block it out? 

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Sandwiched in between are other ideas I probably NEVER would have considered prior:

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For instance, late in April, my spam mail asked me if I wanted to opt out of their barrage, acknowledging, no doubt out of market research, that the idea of motherhood is fraught.

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Relatedly, a few weeks later, a law firm pitched their expertise for any timely stories being written on … the legal ramifications of motherhood in the modern age, where women are embarking on their path to parenthood later in life and perhaps with more intention than ever … two things conservative America has been somewhat successful in thwarting through more onerous policy and the curtailment of certain standards of medical care.

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You know … the romantic notion that your custody battles could be intense in this “brave” new world.

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And your children will cut you off because you told them “NO” too often … or not enough, or because you were suffocating or you were stoic and unhelpful. Because you never listen or didn’t hear what they were saying. 

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Your best wasn’t enough. And it wasn’t the mistakes you made as much as it was the mistakes you wouldn’t admit or acknowledge. The things you can’t talk about without feeling hurt or defensive.

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Our actions or lack thereof may have been imminently defensible, but we never discussed them like coherent human beings. Perhaps we never even considered they were up for debate.  

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Many of us were raised to “do as you are told,” and we fully expected our kids would, too. Although many of us made good-faith attempts to be friends with our children, perhaps hoping we would be trusted confidants, always in the know.

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And while that may be the case, we were never just friends. Our job was always to give them building blocks and structure, and their job was to break those guidelines into pieces from which they could build something new. Something that is mostly their own. A life that one day, won’t include us.

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Once our parents are gone … and our children grown, mothering can feel lonely. We might feel like ghosts of past selves.

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So on this Mother’s Day, I want to urge that we give ourselves some extra careful mothering. We might just listen. We might apologize. Our memories will live on for at least a generation.

Because if we are here now, we have an onus to meet the moment. 

Hidden Gems

In the four years our daughter navigated university life in Boston and a course load I could barely pronounce, let alone wrap my head around, I had spent about a month of days trying to navigate its streets.

I spent many mornings piecing small runs through the parks that connect the city’s famed Emerald Necklace. Often getting lost, alternately confused by construction and the city’s natural complexity. 

While we visited during family weekends, we tried to be available but unobtrusive. It is natural, even if painfully so, that our very presence elicits conflicting aspects of wary and welcome. 

The first time we visited, she took advantage of the safe-haven familiarity offered in our hotel suite. This time, it was clear she was home in the world. All along, she had to push against our pull. 

A tightrope walk, for sure, but also, in truth, a feat of spectacular proportion.

We are constantly reminded of that delicate balance as we sit as guests waiting for the pomp and circumstance to begin. 

Speeches are filled with commendations about the graduates’ drive and resilience. Speakers gave generous praise to the parents who helped make it all possible. We are reminded about their fortitude in the face of struggle. How success and failure are intertwined. And how experience is at the heart of all education, which, ideally, is never-ending. 

It is our story, as parents, too.

We made small talk with the parents around us in a line that stretched around the block, past a celebrity burger joint she never tried, and the bullseye department store she mused was always cleaned out of stock by the density of college-aged consumers it triangulated. 

I got unexpectedly emotional as we shuffled slowly past. Camera in hand, but in an ocean of people … Like I had missed a silly photo opportunity to come full circle. “We should have come here … I had forgotten we were in Target when she got her acceptance letter!”

“Yesterday, we did a photo shoot at Dunkin’s,” said the lady next to me, and the line reverberated with stories of following their cap and gowned grads into their favorite bodegas and random spots on and off campus. 

We had followed our daughter through a fancy shopping center, down an escalator into an underground burrow where she had found her own hidden gem - a little closet where a cobbler offered instant shoe repair. It was a tiny moment that felt momentous.

As we file into the storied stadium and sit in seats we’d envy during a ballgame, the bigness of all hits me in a way that it hadn’t during two other ceremonies we’d already attended in as many days.

We all experience moments like this, and we interpret them in different ways. Sometimes we marvel, and sometimes we take for granted. We often experience excitement with anxiety. We even filter out the shine and focus on the little spots of tarnish. 

We may even look back and see something we missed the first time. Hidden in plain sight. Hope.

Family business

 “Hey … can you check to see if the artwork in my room is covered?”

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I’m not sure why the thought crossed her mind at that moment – ten minutes to noon on a Wednesday, three days before the first of three commencement ceremonies she would walk in to culminate her bachelor’s degree – but as I was on my way to the home office to make a sandwich anyway, I concluded popping my head into her room for a condition check wasn’t an imposition.

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Of course, I knew that the “artwork” in question was a gift her father and I had given to her for her birthday, a favorite print that we’d had framed. It was just waiting, leaning against a bookcase in her childhood bedroom, temporary storage for when she has a house of her own … not just a dorm that only allows featherweight posters to be hung with the non-marring properties of a sticky putty.

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What I didn’t know was what she was really after through the seemingly random ask.

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“What do you mean covered?”

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I could have assumed that she wanted to ensure the piece was enclosed in some protective packaging, something to keep it off the dust and the unwanted attention of a cat intent on sharpening her claws. But she could also have meant some kind of indemnification, where the work would have been protected should there be a cataclysm in these increasingly uncertain times.

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It was the former, although my confusion gave her pause to consider the latter, if only momentarily.

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I smiled as I imagined her thought process.

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A tree could give up, or a storm could make it give in; either way, the roof could be next in line for destruction. That she worried about the things in her room that she coveted most was the framed art poster – not even a print – that wouldn’t break the bank to replace.

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Was she really worried about the sun bleaching the paperboard through the tiny, eyebrow windows, or was it a safe-enough worry to distract her from all the other worries that fire at us randomly whenever we mark a transition?

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Not that she’ll be going anywhere just yet. She’ll stay on the same campus - maybe in another suite with different roommates and similar pristine walls - for one more year while she adds another degree.

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When I get to the top of the stairs and open the door to her room, I see what I expected. The frame is leaning against the bookcase. It is exposed, and the print is facing the windows. It was fine. The colors were still intense. There were no imperfections. In the room, the light seemed to naturally filter elsewhere. It occurred to me that the glass is likely the kind that protects from UV damage. I just hope the protection is the product of manufacturing science and not a combination of marketing and wishful thinking.

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I’m not worried. But i don’t want her to worry either.

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I turn the frame’s face toward the windowless wall and wrap it in a clean sheet from the linen closet. I take a photo of its protected state and send it off with my condition report.

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She sends me a smiley face emoji wearing sunglasses.