I remember a time when my single parent mother was a dynamo of energy, working as a teacher, attending classes at a local college, keeping our home in perfect order, getting me and my brothers to our many practices and events, caring for her aging mother and sometimes finding time for herself with friends on Saturday evenings. Somehow she seemed to need less sleep than the rest of us as she balanced a thousand different tasks while on her tiptoes. It was not until I was in my twenties and that she first showed frightening signs of mental illness that manifested as extreme depression and fear. Somehow she adjusted to a new attitude about life after that, often allowing dust to settle noticeably on her furniture or dishes to languish in her sink overnight while she slumbered longer than she had ever before done. She accepted her doctor’s advice to spend more time smelling the roses and less obsessing over how much she had to accomplished in a single day.
I remember being stunned at her ability to focus on the things that made her feel happy and comfortable rather than attempting to be all and do all with perfection. With a big grin on her face she would boast about a typical day born of her new way of viewing life. She retired from working outside her home as soon as it was possible. Then she became the master of her days, often sleeping into the later hours of the morning. She would arise and linger over her first cup of coffee while reading her Bible, a daily ritual that brought her joy and focus. There was no hurry in her schedule, no task so dire that she had to tackle it immediately. She had learned that everything gets done sooner or later and that a few crumbs on the floor do not constitute an emergency.
With retirement came freedom to design her days serendipitously. She might decide to take an unplanned trip to Galveston just to sit on the seawall and breathe the salty air of the Gulf of Mexico. On other days she would set out in search of sales where she might discover gifts for the many occasions that she celebrated with her children and grandchildren. She would talk to her sisters every day and often visited the one who lived in a nursing home armed with Snickers bars or barbecue sandwiches that they both would share. She tended her garden or lay on her bed listening to an Astros game on the radio. She found great joy in each moment even if nothing much was actually happening.
As a child under my mother’s tutelage I had adopted a work ethic worthy of a perfectionist. Her lackadaisical ways did not appear until after I was gone from home. Sometimes it baffled me to see her messy house when she had instructed me in the proper ways of maintaining order and design. I still recall our spring and fall deep cleaning rallies when every slat on the blinds were carefully washed and all of the baseboards gleamed from our deep cleaning efforts. I remember the days before dishwashers when she and I took turns at the sink making our dishes and pots and pans spotless as soon as the meal was over. I often think of the nightly ritual of the four of us scanning the rooms for our personal items which we returned to proper places before going to bed. I still do those things as a matter of habit without really thinking that taking care of such tasks is inconvenient. I won’t even leave for an outing without making certain that everything is tidy. Such compulsions feel as though they are baked into my DNA when they are actually learned traits that I perfected in the before times when my mother was a neat freak.
I suppose that I might benefit from relaxing a bit more now that I am older but I have yet to feel the urge to do so. It is only in the early morning hours that I linger as I sip on tea and listen to my neighborhood coming alive. I enjoy the changing cadence of the different seasons and find something quite special about each of them. The sound of children chatting at the bus stop is perhaps my favorite, but the arrival of the doves that coo on my roof is a wonderful rival for my affection. Every task waits for me while I revel in the joy of not having to rush around in the dark preparing to drive in heavy traffic to work. The mornings are my mini rebellion against the to do lists and routines that instruct me the rest of my day.
I am still responsible for the mathematical education of ten students. My lessons vary from beginner multiplication and division to functions and matrices. I time the classes so that I never have to leave home until almost nine in the morning and my drive is a leisurely one of less than fifteen minutes. I can arrive in my jeans and t-shirts without a drop of makeup on my face. I suppose that this is the extent of allowing myself to fudge a bit on perfectionist goals.
Once in awhile nonetheless the wind whispers to me and I know that I am longing to go on adventures without worrying about what I may leave behind. The mountains whisper to me and I must go. I hear the siren call of New Orleans or the Texas Hill Country and nothing stops me from filling a bag with changes of clothing and heading out my door without even noticing laundry bins spilling over or dishes sitting in the sink. It is as though the natural me, the person I would be if devoid of training, comes out to play. I feel the freedom from my own demands and it is glorious.
I suppose that I am still evolving even as I stick with most of the routines that I learned long ago. People tell me to hire someone to perform the tasks that rotate through my calendar but I still enjoy doing them and so far I am still able to do them. My leisurely mornings grow longer, leaving me with less and less time for the mundane jobs that I once accomplished with regularity. Perhaps I am beginning to more and more realize what is most important like my mother finally did. Little by little I am letting go and just following my heart. I’m listening to the call of the doves and thinking that maybe today I don’t have to follow the dictates that I have scheduled on my calendar. Perhaps the time has come to just do nothing at all. .
All It Takes Is A Little Love 