For the past month and a half, I've been working on my novel, waking up early and editing or writing but prior to that I wrote my 'morning pages'--three pages of free-flowing thoughts. "Three pages of whatever crosses your mind--that's all there is to it. If you can't think of anything to write, then write, 'I can't think of anything to write...' Do this until you have filled three pages," writes Julia Cameron.
Some interesting stuff comes out. Anyway, I thought maybe I could find time to blog if I did it like my morning pages, meaning, write it all out in the early a.m. in a lined notebook and transfer to the laptop later but spare you stuff like "I'm writing with a green pencil" and "the dog is licking his you-know-what."
But it is going to include things like, "I had a dream last night..."
Side note: My middle daughter the most, but all of the children love to ask first thing in the morning, before I've had my first sip of coffee, "Do you want to hear my dream?" And I'm thinking, No, not even a little bit because it's going to make zero sense and I'm pretty sure you're going to add details and storylines that didn't really occur in said dream and it's going to be really, really long, but outwardly I nod and they proceed.
On another side note, we've decided to get the kids 'special' and 'meaningful' gifts this year for Christmas instead of the usual crap toys that break or only get played with once (my oldest is thrilled by the concept, let me tell you). So...one of my gifts to the middle daughter is a dream journal and a pretty pen Brilliant, eh?
So back to my dream. In the dream, my husband and I were on a getaway from the kids, in a hotel room. The hotel room was box shaped and small and there were bunkbeds against each wall so eight beds in all and my husband and I sat on the floor in this tiny space, grading the kids' schoolwork. So, that's hot. But this one seems pretty easy to interpret. I feel crowded, like I can never escape the children and even when I do, I am in some way attending to them, even if just in thought.
Last night, as a family we read Unwrapping the Greatest Gift by Ann Voskamp and we went around and shared about a hard gift, something that was difficult to be grateful for. Middle daughter said she was grateful that when we were sick, we were all sick and could be together. My oldest daughter sighed and pointed out that we are always all together.
It's amazing to me, and I suppose somewhat flattering, how the youngest three don't mind the constant company a household of our size provides. Maybe, because they never knew any different? For my part, I grew up an only child. I fantasized about having a large family with tons of siblings and then later couldn't wait to have a hoard of kids. Cure-all for loneliness. But now that I have that wealth of children, I realize I wasn't so much lonely as I was content.
Well maybe, that's not fair. It's just that the siblings/children of my imagination were much quieter and a bit more well-behaved. Not one of them possessed a strong-will; all were eager to please which is not, I've found, how real children are at all. And as I type this, one of the kids has woken and the puppy (that was a grand idea) is barking but, too, it was dark when I woke and now the sky is pink.
And I am grateful for the most part that we're always together. It's what I chose and we're close. We love and like each other and I'm blessed to be able to stay home with them and teach them and also learn from them, which I do daily.
And also, I need a break, an escape once in a while. My devotions this morning were from Mark and they started with, "In the early morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house, and went away to a secluded place, and was praying there." -Mark 1:35 NASB. Jesus had somewhere to go. I don't know where I'd go--somewhere without my gradebook and then maybe after some time alone and two cups of coffee, I'd be able to be a more attentive listener to my little dreamer who is also the big talker around here.
For now, I'll sip my coffee that's turned cold and take the dog out and say yes to whatever crazy question Verity (middle daughter) is asking--something about looking at and organizing the presents under the tree--and I will practice contentment.
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