It’s now week 4 of COVID-19 quarantine here in Washington state, and this poem I recently discovered by W.B. Yeats is on my mind in a big way (because, you know, I have time to read poetry now).
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the
honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
W.B. Yeats
The thought process inevitably circles: “I want to go to Innisfree. Right now. By myself. For a long time. And keep bees and listen to crickets. And read novels all day as I listen to the lapping lake water ... Ok, after a day by myself I would want Matt there too. And maybe after a few days we will have the kids join us because I would miss them too much and they would love it there.” At which point I do a search on Google Flights for airline tickets to Ireland or start thinking about the logistics of an extended stay with my family in a vacation rental, and it all becomes much less romantic.
But really, how do I turn this quarantined, slightly mundane, suburban existence into my very own Lake Isle of Innisfree? (Like now, please, because I want to go so bad).
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the
honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
We spend nearly 100% of our time at home now, so our physical surroundings are something I think about often. Our home is no small cabin in the bee-loud glade, but I guess it is pretty charming . . . My sister convinced me to purchase a golf-ball sized crystal that hangs in the window. It reflects rainbows off every surface of the family room when the light is right and hangs next to my desk--the darling little roll top that Matt bought me for my birthday. I guess that’s pretty magical. And I do love the sunroom filled with our books, piano, and the comfy chair I rocked my babies in. No bean-rows, but it’s pretty cool that my houseplants survived the move. Plus, the flower stalls at Pike Place Market sell dried bouquets in the winter, so our house is still filled with “fresh-ish” flowers. The kid’s artwork is proudly displayed in almost every room, along with framed paintings and antique maps that we have collected throughout our marriage. I also love including one or two reminders of Christ in each room to help us remember Him always. Ok, ok, so home is pretty great just the way it is. No honey-bees, but I can live with that. It is pretty dreamy to wake up to the red-winged blackbird and the chickadees singing in the forest behind our house.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
Hmm. But peace? Do I have peace here? Not consistently. I have three kids ages 5 and under and we are locked down together at home with no end in sight. My nerves are often frayed and I lose my temper more often than not. There are peaceful moments though, like when they are playing kindly with each other in the morning and I can sit for a few minutes with a peppermint tea while sunlight streams through the windows. Or when we snuggle up to read books together in someone’s bed. Or when the sun is shining in the afternoon and we flee to the backyard and drift apart for a few blessed minutes after a long morning together in the house. Jules collecting rocks in her bucket, Jonny climbing his tree, Will digging in the dirt, and I get the satisfaction of pulling a few weeds or tidying the yard, or just sitting at the top of the hill with the sun in my face. And on a good day, we might migrate back into the house afterwards for another round of togetherness with a snack and a board game, puzzle, or some Lego. I guess that is pretty peaceful.
The peace does come dropping slow though. Peaceful moments are few and far between most days. If I’m not in the right mindset to receive them as such, those quiet moments pass by without recognition, marked only by a desperate scroll through Instagram or a sneaky mouthful of frozen chocolate chips. All the while rushing around to change the laundry or empty the dishwasher before the spell is broken and chaos sets back in.
The days when I am prepared to relish the peace, and truly be calmed by the peace, are the days all the cliche “mom self-care” things are done: making the bed, taking a shower, cleaning the kitchen the night before, folding the laundry right away, blah, blah, blah. I can't deny the importance of those tasks to my peace of mind. But most importantly, the days I am calmed by small moments of peace come when I have made the time to immerse myself in the word of God--truly feasting. Making a focused effort to Hear Him and to commune with Him through prayer. Somehow if I have done those things, the quiet moments are transformed from a temporary reprieve from the chaos, into true peace. My heart feels lighter and I don’t yearn for the lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore quite as much as I would otherwise.
So in my deep heart’s core I guess I realize that with Jesus (and hopefully a healthy dose of spring sunshine) my little suburban existence will be pretty darn good, with or without a quarantine. Even though it’s no Lake Isle. I have so much to be grateful for. This time together has strengthened my relationship with my children, and their relationships with each other. And having Matt around all the time is the best. But when this quarantine is up, I might reconsider that vacation rental. Just for a minute.
No comments:
Post a Comment