Finding solitude: look within and look around

Returning to beauty allows us to become makers of beauty.

Noticing things: A brief pause at a large family gathering revealed this view of the Maumee River with a flock of egrets hovering above the water. It was a moment of beauty that stilled my heart and mind. November 2016, at the Roche de Bout shelter in Toledo, Ohio.

Backstory: Everyday Chaos with Five Kids

It’s 9 AM on a Monday morning. I’ve been awake since 6, and this is the first moment I have sat down to notice things —my surroundings, the weather, my breath. Ben and I get out of bed and, like drill instructors, maintain a smooth regimen for our five children to prepare for their school day.

As soon as I open my bedroom door, Sarah, who sits under the dim light of the dining room chandelier, looks up from her drawing and says, “Hi, Mom.” I croak, “Good morning, Sarah,” as my feet begin to pick up momentum after remaining stationary for eight hours. Joey lines up his matchbox cars in the family room, which is where I end up after snaking around the entirety of downstairs, opening blinds and turning on lights.

Ben joins me in the kitchen, his eyelids still droopy, and he pours his first cup of coffee. I don’t drink caffeine, but today I wish I did. Actually, most of the time, I wish I could tolerate it without the consequence of anxiety. “I’m going to take a shower,” I tell him, clearing my throat and noticing it is dry and in need of a quick rinse with water.

While I shower, I hear the kids hollering, whining, and crying. Veronica thrusts the laundry room door open, so that she can fish around the pile of clean clothes to put on her school uniform. Sarah just finished dressing moments before. Joey screeches, and I hear Ben, muffled, bellow to him, “Joey, stop jumping on the kitchen chairs and eat your breakfast!”

When I emerge from my shower, I walk through a trail of dirty clothes —last night’s pajamas, socks stained with grass and dirt, underpants crumpled in the corner. “Hey, guys, let’s put our dirty clothes in the hamper, please!” Veronica complies. Sarah follows suit, I assume so that she can earn the same level of cursory attention I give to Veronica this time of day. (“Good job, Veronica. Hey, thanks for listening, Sarah.”)

But Joey refuses. I sigh. This is typical, and I tell myself multiple times a day, He’s only four. Well, almost five, but still. He’s little. Which means he doesn’t yet know how to self-regulate on a consistent basis. “But, Mo-o-o-m!” he whines. I cringe. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, I think, then brush it off and ask one more time in a calm tone of voice, “Joey, please just put your socks and jammies in the hamper.” He’s throwing himself on the floor now, and all I can muster from the paltry amount of energy I woke up with is to step over him and walk into our bedroom, where I get dressed.

Ben is in full-on parent mode now. I’m scurrying so that I can assist him, knowing that the mornings feel like we’re preparing for a rodeo. I hear him hollering, “What do you want for breakfast?” as, one by one, four of the five wake up enough to realize that they are not just hungry but absolutely famished, so they demand that their food instantly appear in front of them as soon as they sit at the table.

Once I join everyone in the kitchen (knowing I’ll need to get Auggie up in a few minutes), I’m creating the morning assembly line of lunch bags, ice packs, and water bottles, filling each bag with a sandwich, raw veggies, some fruit, and a crunchy snack that I prepared and packaged the day before. Then, I check everyone’s backpack for stray items I may have missed a few days ago, when Friday was new and I didn’t care about handling business affairs.

“Would you like some eggs?” Ben asks me, glancing over his shoulder. He has two burners going simultaneously, as he frys a diced potato and a couple of eggs for his breakfast. I pause to think about my own hunger. “Yes, please,” I respond, rubbing his shoulder as I pass him to grab my tea cup, stevia, and plate.

Sarah finishes her breakfast first. I have to remind her of what’s next. Always. “Remember to put your dirty dishes in the sink, and then bring your toothbrush downstairs so that I can help you brush your teeth.” I check everyone’s feet next. “Veronica, let’s get your socks and shoes on before you sit down to eat.” Felicity is already packing her bags and putting in her earbuds to listen to some teen pop before she’s told it’s time to go.

Joey still isn’t totally dressed. “Hey, Ben, Joey needs to get dressed. I’m going to get Auggie up after I help Sarah brush her hair and teeth.” He sounds a tad annoyed. “I know. I’ve been trying to get him to sit still for the last ten minutes, while you were still getting ready. I’ll take care of it.”

Once I open the door to the boys’ room, Auggie pops right up, bleary-eyed but grateful someone remembered him. I grin. “Hi, buddy! Ready to get up and eat breakfast?” He nods. “Mmm-hmm.” I help him undress and grab his clothes for the day, chatting about menu options —Cheerios, cinnamon squares, oatmeal, and granola —so that he won’t (maybe?) start complaining that he isn’t wearing the green dump truck shirt. It’s his current favorite, but it’s in the wash.

Sarah approaches me with her toothbrush, shoving it in my face. “Hey, slow down,” I tell her, as I plop Auggie down on the ground. “Make sure you open your mouth wide,” I remind her, and then begin the circular motion of her toothbrush around the top braces, then the bottom, checking for half-masticated food stuck in the brackets.

After backpacks are loaded up with lunches, charged Chromebooks, and water bottles, I prepare my breakfast. Ben announces, “Fifteen minutes, and we’re loading up!” In my mind, I think I’m almost there —almost to the point where I can sit down and gather my thoughts for the day with a hot cup of jasmine tea and a couple of eggs with gluten-free avocado toast —when I notice the sink is filled with dishes. As I wait for my toast, I quickly rinse them and place them aside.

The timer beeps, and Ben and I are last-minute checking with the kids: “Did you brush your hair? Your teeth? Did you remember your library book?” And they file, noisily, into the van. I hear their voices fade, then turn to Auggie. “And what would you like for breakfast?” He eats his oatmeal with relative contentment while watching Pup Academy on Netflix.

I grab my breakfast plate and tea cup, both of which are lukewarm by now, and sit down to eat.

Creating a Habit of Attunement

People tell you to be mindful about everything, that attending to what is directly in front of you is the pathway to centering yourself. With children of varying ages and developmental needs, the likelihood of me slowly inhaling the aroma of my tea and savoring every bite of my meal is pretty slim. Instead, monkey mind, or mom mind, takes charge, as I wolf down my food so that I can move on to the next task: laundry, wiping Auggie’s nose, filling up his water bottle, leaving for an appointment. I’m not sure what it is today, but it’s always something.

That’s why it’s taken me three hours to come to a point where my mind and body caught up with each other. I choose to take Daisy for a walk, which tends to pull me into my surroundings. I hear an unusual bird call, admire the cloudless blue sky, puzzle over a strange mushroom growing at the base of a cluster of fir trees.

Nature, though sometimes frenetic and violent, at least tells me something about the value of attunement, which is not only specific to humans but to every living thing in which we find ourselves immersed. I am attuned when I feel a sense of connection with nature, with my dog, with Ben or the kids. Also, with myself. Attunement is a combination of turning inward while also appreciating what is happening in this instant, right now, around me.

When Sarah was born, I discovered that the only way I could regain my sanity once I spiraled into my frequent states of panic about her life or death or medical care or surgeries was to turn away from my fear, which manifested as why and what if, and pay attention to the first thing that caught my eye and granted me either a slice of joy or the effect of peace.

I first practiced this when we lived in a rural town, and I was often the only person on my block at home during the days with my two girls. (Felicity was a toddler, Sarah an infant.) I relished weekdays, because the street was absent of buzzing vehicles filled with people rushing to get to work on time. The quiet space outside of my home reminded me that I could also quiet my mind.

It felt lame to sit in the family room armchair and look outside the window while Sarah and Felicity napped. Oh, a cardinal, I thought with mild annoyance. But I disciplined myself to pay attention to the cardinal, and then he became interesting to me. I watched him preen his feathers, then sing as if he were performing for the love of his life. Indeed, he was: his little mate fluttered onto our covered porch with a few twigs in her beak, and they both huddled in the nest they were building on a remote corner I never otherwise would have seen —if I hadn’t been paying attention.

Sometimes I’d notice a rare sighting of a butterfly, sometimes the sight of the tulips, daffodils, and irises peeking above the ground after a long winter’s slumber. But the habit of pausing and scanning my surroundings has served me well, because now I look forward to it. When my heart is laden with worry, as it tends to be, a signal in my mind tells me to stop, look outside my window, and wait until something delights me.

The element of surprise in the form of delight sparks a new sense of wonder in me every day. Not long ago, after reading Rick Rubin’s book, The Creative Act, I learned that all great artists return to a state of childlike innocence (what we might also call purity of heart). The ability to remain open and curious, and thus to receive whatever captivates your heart seems to be a prerequisite for creating beautiful, meaningful things.

I think that returning to beauty, wherever it can be found, allows us to become makers of beauty, too. It’s easy to fall prey to the ongoing dismal reality of war, genocide, political division, broken families, collective trauma, etc. But finding what is lovely, relishing it for a moment, then allowing the feeling and image to be imprinted in our hearts and possibly give rise to something new that can then inspire someone else? That is how we find solitude in the midst of chaos.

Contrary to common parlance, solitude is not only akin to loneliness. I think that’s why we avoid it, to be honest. We are afraid of what might happen if we stop scurrying long enough to settle ourselves and simply be present in our own company. Chaos might appear a better fit to daily life, because it’s what we’re used to and it’s what our Western culture affirms.

Chaos, however, means we’re avoiding something deeper, something truer, that we need. The need for rest. The need for contemplation, reflection. The need to seek. The need for mystery. The need to be. And what these needs point to is this: our humanness, our mortality, neither of which we care to admit about our lives. To be human means we cannot operate at the level of a machine, going, going, going without a break. To be mortal means that even we will one day wither and die.

Solitude draws us away from what gnaws at our hearts, because the pain we eschew only amplifies when we ignore or stuff it down. To look within and look without: these are both simple and complicated. Yet they are the very antidotes to living in a constant state of stress and overwhelm that seems to define the current “American Spirit.”

What I know is that most of us want more than to merely survive. We may convince ourselves that the middle road is fine, because it’s easy. It’s comfortable. It’s what we know. As a mom of five, I understand the seasons of survival, when sleep is meager, and so is adequate nourishment, let alone pondering the state of the cosmos. (Cue Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Needs.”)

Even so, survival gives way to burnout if we are not careful, and by careful I mean aware of the state of ourselves. What restlessness points to regrets, an emotional hollowness, the uninhabited places inside that beg for us to slow down? We can’t know if we don’t actually slow down, and sometimes the first step is just sitting by your living room window for five minutes and watching the cardinal and his mate build a nest on your front porch.