Getting Through the Clatter

"Poems would be easy if our heads weren't so full of the day's clatter. 

The task is to get through to the other side, 

where we can hear the deep rhythms that connect us with the stars and the tides."

-- Stanley Kunitz

Well, it's happened. Another school year has begun and with it the complex equation of how to fit four schedules together to equal one smooth running day. I've never been good at math, but we do our best around here to get everyone's needs met. I am the keeper of the day's mundane details. What time is Miles' soccer practice? Can I pick Frances up from high school today or does she need to take the bus home? Did Miles put his math homework in his backpack? Which one of us has time to walk the dog this evening? When can we squeeze in a trip to Staples to get Frances a scientific calculator? What the heck is a scientific calculator anyway? Like I said, I've never been good at math.

Things get neglected in the busy rush of the school year. For instance, the dog has the lingering scent of the dead seal he rolled in the other day because we are out of dog shampoo. And speaking of not bathing, I'm not sure when Miles' last took a shower. (He'll never tell.) The laundry is spilling out of the hamper, and I'm looking at a houseplant that hasn't been watered since July. Oh, and then there's dinner. I guess I should feed the children. Didn't I just do that yesterday?

And yet all I want to do is write this blog, sing a song, write a song, read a book, take the dog on a long walk, sit in the yard and watch the changing light, or hang out with my family with nothing tugging us away from each other. These things feel every bit as essential to me as eating and bathing. They are like fresh vine-ripened tomatoes for the soul. If I didn't have them I could survive on supermarket tomatoes, but I would never know how flavorful and complex a tomato could taste. 

Last week I attended a guided group meditation with my husband, Paul. He has been meditating for a couple of years now, and he thought I might enjoy this group. And he was right. There were maybe twenty people sitting on chairs or cushions, a couple of people lying on the floor. The room was homey and comfortable. And the leader, with her Austrian accent, had the most hypnotic voice on the planet. She could have been reading her bank statement and I would have sat there rapt, listening contentedly for hours. O.k., so I dozed off a little during the first part of the meditation, but it was a sweet, dreamy, floaty kind of nap. And when I finally surfaced, I just floated along on that hypnotic voice, watching the cares of the day slip away.

I don't know if I had a "successful" meditation, but I do know that when we got home I did not start barking directions at the kids. I didn't ask if they'd finished their homework or made their lunches for the next day. Just this once I put my faith in the universe that what needed to happen would happen. Paul and I joined them in the living room. And we all sat together, chatting about nothing important, just being together. And for a magical half an hour or so nothing tugged us away from each other.