Some days feel overcast, even when the sun is shining bright. Some days feel lonely, even when you're surrounded by loved ones. Some days, parenting feels like nothing more than a shortcut to winning yet another failing asshat badge. Some days, marriage feels like a Sisyphean toil.
Some days you return home and find soggy mounds of cat puke dotting your kitchen. You find capellini-sized worms eating through the tight, pink-tipped buds studding the rose bush you've spent a solid year tending; you toss the worms to the ground angrily, wondering if your roses will bloom. You cut open a Meyer lemon proudly plucked straight from the tree you've nursed for as long as that rose and find it to be all pith, the very antithesis of a Meyer's goal.
Some days, you ponder family that feel like strangers. You wonder what happened last November and if your country will ever heal. You wonder about the rage you sometimes feel, the rage you know others feel, the anger and mistrust seeping into the white space left gaping and sore by shock and concern. You wonder about good seeds and bad seeds and where and when neutral forebears diverged onto paths lit by light and shrouded by dark. You wonder how much light and how much dark you're comprised of.
Some days you meet an old friend for lunch and shock yourself by sharing things from the depths. You realize that you needed to but that that need is an uncomfortable, suggestive one. You are grateful that even though you rarely see this friend, she was exactly who you needed to share a bowl of fries with.
Some days you curse the invasive clover around whose roots ants seem to like constructing villages, and the bamboo sneaking under the fence separating your yard from your neighbor's. But dealing with them offers an odd sense of peace and accomplishment: from slowly peeling up buckets of juicy white clover stem that seem like an endless highway system coursing between grass and soil, from unearthing and cleaving into so many pieces the deeply entrenched tap root of the bamboo, comes exhaustion and serenity, and I think that order is key.
Some days you hunker down and inward, willing yourself to rest and notice the tiny bits of beauty that really do beckon from more corners than you can count. Some days you put on a dress and new sandals and mod earrings and immerse yourself in a sea of activity and interaction because sometimes, getting out of your own head is the best gift you can give yourself. Some days you challenge yourself to learn or do something new; maybe you make a mistake, maybe you don't. But you are brave and you notice you stand just a bit taller.
Some days are relentless and hard, and then your child cries and needs you to hold him as his tears wet your shoulders and your arms embrace his gangly body. And you are tired and there is nowhere you'd rather be, even if you feel impotent really, for you can't make him better at chess, you can't make him believe he really isn't "the worst one in the club." You can't, but you can hold him as he calms. And you can dry his eyes and kiss his cheeks and offer to make a sandwich and maybe do something so silly, anything, just to make him smile.
Some days you cook three dinners (for various reasons) and you forget to turn the sprinkler off and move the laundry over and wash the cat's injured foot. You're reading to your child and turn the book over to him even though it's a challenging one because your dinner is finally ready and you're hungry. And he flies with such ease and fluency, and you sit there with your mouth agape, beaming with pride at this child who has worked unceasingly and courageously and has gotten it. And you tell him that, and he believes you, and he blushes with the fire of belief and accomplishment, and you would not trade this for the world.
Some days you remember the night you arrived in New York, with one suitcase and no longer enough money to fairly tip the cab driver. He is kind and waits as you ring the bell of your new home. He is concerned when the people who are supposed to answer don't. He sees your concern. You wonder if he knows of your broken heart. He offers you his phone, and you take it with gratitude even though you cannot pay him enough. He waves his hand, "Don't worry."
Some days you go back to New York, the place you found yourself. Really found yourself. And it is still dirty and magnificent and throbbing with life and air conditioners drip from above and kindness and hardness surround you like a maelstrom but once again you find yourself and you return home grounded.
Some days your spouse rubs your shoulders and then unloads the dishwasher right when you need just those things.
Some days you dream big dreams and feel silly about it. Other days you dream big dreams and know you'll see them come true. Some day.