I have books to read at present - good books. Enough to keep me reading with interest for a few days in the moments between the endless tasks that are mine to accomplish. I have also learned (excitement!) that several books have recently been published that I long to read. They are bound to be at the library soon, keeping me going for more days.
I know I should soldier on for my kids when things are hard, and I do, really - making sure that I keep up with all of my responsibilities for their sakes. I don't like to confess, though, that the very great privilege I have in being able to do that - a gift that I know should infuse me with joy - is often not enough to keep up my spirits when I fear a future of Republican-driven climate change, a crumbling educational system for the poor, sorrows for my loved ones, ever harder and more exhausting workdays for me etc., etc., etc.
I feel that just the beauty and wonder of those precious children who I am so lucky to be able to care for should be enough, but somehow I still get tired and glum. I'm ashamed of this - it is weak and selfish and ungrateful when there is so much I have for which to be grateful. I am grateful for my children and the ability to care for them - truly and deeply - but not always joyfully. And I wish I were. I try to be.
It is books that keep me walking the line of sanity, though. That distract me from my worries long enough to keep me from being enveloped by them. Day by day, books keep me on this side of the edge. They save me.
No comments:
Post a Comment