Filling the well

The clock's rhythm blends into the background of the day, ticking me through the day, tocking us through ages and phases. The days slide off the calendar, now lying in a pile on the floor, now the rubble of time's swift avalanche.

And another year arrives.

I'll move through it along paths of household patterns, ruts of daily rhythms.

I'll wash dishes in a never-ending cycle, fold enough laundry to fill an entire department store, and scrub battalions of dirt and germs from every household surface. I'll dust off dirty faces and temper torrential tantrums. I'll make hundreds of meals that are eaten –or rejected – in one eighth of the prep time. I'll read small libraries of picture books and play supporting roles in countless pretend productions. I'll drive hundreds of miles to preschool, parks, playdates. I'll hug, wonder, laugh, skip, dance, explain, cry, roll my eyes, and tear my hair out. I'll love.

I'll kindle passion for this life on some days.

But on other days, I'll dip my bucket deep and draw it up dry.

I'll look into that water far, far below and shout: What's the point?

I'll hear my voice echo back – a lonely sound.

And then I'll fill that well.

I'll set aside this chore to play a game with the kids – I'll pour in laughter and silliness. I'll watch the sun rise and I'll save that sense of possibility in the stillness. I'll call a sister, mother, friend and hang onto that connection even after we hang up. I'll embrace my husband and remember exactly why we started this family. I'll close my eyes, breathe deeply, and know I'm a small part of Something much, much greater.

I'll understand that even seemingly insignificant movements send ripples into this oceanic reality.

And I'll wonder what tidal waves might rise up, leagues from here.