Mamaste
"My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?"
I brought my kids over to my friend’s house to play and
carry on and so that my friend and I could seek solace in this heavy business
of momming. Walking in, I felt right at home. Toys strewn wildly, shoes (some
match!) in smallish piles a short distance from the shoe storage place, the
most random randomness and fullness sprinkled, piled, spilled everywhere. This
place is lived in. I take a deep, easy
breath and sigh.
“Mamaste”
I see your messy, busy, lived-in house and it reminds me of
my messy, busy, lived-in house. We are one.
But, more than that, I see under the mess – the lived-in
house, and also the at times untidy heart. You yelled at your kid that time.
You forgot to bring a snack to share. You flubbed a social situation. You
laughed, you grieved, you loved, you raged, you worried, you celebrated, you
rested. I see it all, I recognize it, I
AM it.
Deeper, I see a good Momma. I see pure intention. I see the
Great Mother in a tiny altar in your heart. And I recognize that, too.
Mamaste,
Amy
