Lenten memories
Jonathan announced a few days ago that he was "imposing" (I use the quotation marks because neither of us believes the actual imposition of duties is allowable or possible between husbands and wives) a Lenten discipline on me - blog every day during Lent. The idea struck me as laughable for its narcissism - during this season traditionally associated with solitary contemplation and self-denial, I'm supposed to spew my self-important thoughts onto the Internet each day? It's certainly not a conventional discipline.
But I decided to give it a try, because Jonathan asked me to, because part of me does want to get back to writing, and (perhaps most importantly) because Jonathan promised to help me find the time to do this.
Where have I been during the past two and a half months since I last posted? The same places I was before: at the sink and the stove, at the park with the children, on campus with Jonathan, in the grocery store and the doctor's office, and so on. I haven't been writing because I decided over Christmas to try (just for a short time) giving up most of my personal activities and hobbies and really focusing on childcare and meal preparation. We've been trying to eat more nutritiously and more cheaply, and I've had to discipline myself (there's that word again!) to spend much more time in the kitchen each afternoon than I had been accustomed to spending. I also occasionally soak beans overnight, and once I made pita bread from scratch. The price I've paid is that I'm fairly cut off from the outside world, and that isn't good for anyone, including my children. I'm able to do these things only because I'm not working for pay or volunteering outside the home. I'm really quite inefficient. So one of my goals for this Lent is to seek God's will for how to balance all things our family should do, and how to direct our family's orientation outward. In this pursuit, Charlie (my oldest, now almost four) provides an invaluable example. Everywhere we go, he introduces himself and strikes up conversations with complete strangers. I've seen many other children do the same. It's truly wonderful to see - and a sobering reminder to all of us who have become cautious, guarded adults.
Lent is supposed to be a time of contemplation - of our sins, our humanity, our need for a savior. That we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Such contemplation requires memory. We are to remember our wrongdoing, remember what God has done for us, and remember our purpose in life. I have trouble with this, because I have a very poor memory. It's not that I don't have memories. Often they come upon me unbidden and alarmingly vivid. A smell will remind me powerfully of a lost time in my life. And yet I think the memories I have are so strong and so independent, coming and going seemingly at will, precisely because I lack a good, steady long-term memory that constructs a narrative of my life thus far, a context in which to file the fleeting memories of moments that come into my head. I have nowhere to keep them. I am struck by them, and then they're gone again.
I feel like I need to do something about this situation. I am coming to God, asking Him to reveal to me what my purposes and priorities should be in this season of my life, but I have little sense of who God has made me to be, because I can't construct a coherent story of my life. Certainly I have the facts. And I am very rooted in my family, with whom I am close. I just can't put the pieces of memories together. I don't really remember myself as a child, a teenager, or even a college student. Every morning when I wake up, I feel that I've always been this way, living this exact life, doing these exact things over and over again. That's not a complaint; my life is very pleasant most of the time. I love routine. But I think seeing my life now in the larger story of my entire life might help me also to see my life in the larger narrative of God's redemption. I also think that remembering my childhood - not the major peaks and valleys, but the day to day existence of a child - might help me become a better, more empathetic mother.
Have any other mothers out there experienced this sort of feeling of spiritual amnesia?
I'll try to post something more upbeat and outward-looking tomorrow!
- KPE
But I decided to give it a try, because Jonathan asked me to, because part of me does want to get back to writing, and (perhaps most importantly) because Jonathan promised to help me find the time to do this.
Where have I been during the past two and a half months since I last posted? The same places I was before: at the sink and the stove, at the park with the children, on campus with Jonathan, in the grocery store and the doctor's office, and so on. I haven't been writing because I decided over Christmas to try (just for a short time) giving up most of my personal activities and hobbies and really focusing on childcare and meal preparation. We've been trying to eat more nutritiously and more cheaply, and I've had to discipline myself (there's that word again!) to spend much more time in the kitchen each afternoon than I had been accustomed to spending. I also occasionally soak beans overnight, and once I made pita bread from scratch. The price I've paid is that I'm fairly cut off from the outside world, and that isn't good for anyone, including my children. I'm able to do these things only because I'm not working for pay or volunteering outside the home. I'm really quite inefficient. So one of my goals for this Lent is to seek God's will for how to balance all things our family should do, and how to direct our family's orientation outward. In this pursuit, Charlie (my oldest, now almost four) provides an invaluable example. Everywhere we go, he introduces himself and strikes up conversations with complete strangers. I've seen many other children do the same. It's truly wonderful to see - and a sobering reminder to all of us who have become cautious, guarded adults.
Lent is supposed to be a time of contemplation - of our sins, our humanity, our need for a savior. That we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Such contemplation requires memory. We are to remember our wrongdoing, remember what God has done for us, and remember our purpose in life. I have trouble with this, because I have a very poor memory. It's not that I don't have memories. Often they come upon me unbidden and alarmingly vivid. A smell will remind me powerfully of a lost time in my life. And yet I think the memories I have are so strong and so independent, coming and going seemingly at will, precisely because I lack a good, steady long-term memory that constructs a narrative of my life thus far, a context in which to file the fleeting memories of moments that come into my head. I have nowhere to keep them. I am struck by them, and then they're gone again.
I feel like I need to do something about this situation. I am coming to God, asking Him to reveal to me what my purposes and priorities should be in this season of my life, but I have little sense of who God has made me to be, because I can't construct a coherent story of my life. Certainly I have the facts. And I am very rooted in my family, with whom I am close. I just can't put the pieces of memories together. I don't really remember myself as a child, a teenager, or even a college student. Every morning when I wake up, I feel that I've always been this way, living this exact life, doing these exact things over and over again. That's not a complaint; my life is very pleasant most of the time. I love routine. But I think seeing my life now in the larger story of my entire life might help me also to see my life in the larger narrative of God's redemption. I also think that remembering my childhood - not the major peaks and valleys, but the day to day existence of a child - might help me become a better, more empathetic mother.
Have any other mothers out there experienced this sort of feeling of spiritual amnesia?
I'll try to post something more upbeat and outward-looking tomorrow!
- KPE
posted by The Eastvold Blog at 11:25 PM
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