Cleaning Fit

I just spent an hour impromptu cleaning the kitchen, because something smells rotten in here -- like dead mouse rotten -- and I cannot for the life of me find it. I started in the pantry, moving items from shelves and wiping them down, then worked my way to the floor, the dog dishes (which desperately needed washing out, anyway), and the cabinet drawers around the sink.

Then I went for gold and pulled the fridge out from against the wall, vacuuming up lord knows how many months worth of dust and debris. You know it's time when there is dust clinging to the back of the appliances themselves.

Poor Chupie got up from her bed when all this started and sheltered in place under the table, watching from a safe distance. Now a window is open and I could swear the January light feels like we are now on this side of the solstice even though spring is more than two months away.

I've been wanting to write, yet not sitting down to do it.

Instead, I've opted for walking, reading, cleaning, a little bit of yoga, eating, working. Basically everything but writing. In this moment, I have that sensation like when you were about to tell a friend something but suddenly draw a complete blank. When that happens during coaching sessions, I always suggest we just move on; almost 100% of the time, it comes back a few thoughts later. Maybe that will happen here. Maybe not. Either way, I will keep typing and see what happens.

This morning, when Mani and I did our five minutes of sitting meditation, I could hear the coffee brewing and crickets -- thankfully not real ones -- in Pearl's room from the sound machine he likes to have on at night. At one point, I heard a crash in the kitchen, where Pearl was getting his lunch ready for the first day back to school after the winter break. I noticed my impulse to jump up and check to see what had happened, or at the very least to call out and ask if he was ok. I didn't, though. And a moment later, the sound of the fridge door opening and milk pouring over cereal. All was, apparently, well.

This reminded me of when the kids were little, and the whole "blessing of a skinned knee" wisdom. That book came out when I was pregnant with Aviva, in fact. Raising resilient kids from a Jewish perspective -- sounds like something I would have read, doesn't it? Did I ever actually read it, or did I just hear so much about it that I felt like I read it? To be honest, I'm not actually sure. But its principles certainly filtered into our home when my kids were small, reinforced by amazing teachers like Vicki Hoefle, whose six-week program we did when V and Pearl were around two and five.

Vicki's program began with a whole week where the parents' instructions are simple and incredibly revealing: "Do nothing, say nothing." The idea is to get a kind of baseline. Just how bad is it, doc? How much were we "doing" for our kids that they could be doing for themselves? How often were we swooping in to fix, help, manage, direct, redirect, push, correct, and even guide, rather than letting them figure things out -- within reason, of course?

You will not be amazed to learn the answer: A lot.

I remembered the thing I couldn't think of earlier. It had to do with my kids, a more general thought about all the things they are both experiencing that are not mine to write about. Yes, I wish I could sometimes, since I enjoy writing and I love them and supporting them as they continue to grow is such a central aspect of my own life. Yet the things they're going through, the questions they're asking, the moments we share -- these are not fodder for my writing life.

Instead, I come and tell you about the nasty mystery smell in the kitchen and days of yore. Is that what it is to be this age, for those of us who used to write often about our littles who are no longer little at all? Not the question I expected to be asking today, but here we are.

Now Pearl is at school and V and Mani are still on break. It's just me and Chupie in the kitchen; I will get back to going to my office tomorrow but have still been easing into things since the quiet of last week myself. I'm still thinking about the "do nothing, say nothing" homework from all those years ago, and how it has continued to serve me over time (not to be confused with being good at it, mind you).

When someone is crying, let them cry (as long as they are not hurting anyone, themselves included). When someone is angry, let them be angry (as long as they are not hurting anyone, themselves included). And when something smells like it's dying, do what you can to find the culprit.

Learning how to be present without reacting to every last noise and need can be really hard, especially for people (ahem, self) who prefer harmony. Deciding which things need tending and which can wait and which don't belong to me at all. Learning to discern when to step in and when to step back. These continue to be such a practice, in relationships of all kinds.

Yesterday, New Year's Day, a few of the groups I'd finished leading went *poof*. As I clicked that final little button that would make all evidence that we'd ever been there together go away, I took a breath. I also unfriended someone who was really unkind to me last year, and it felt surprisingly significant to do so, a kind of quiet internal "bye, felicia" moment that was six months in the making.

I might resist change, but I also welcome it. It's how we keep things moving, keep energy flowing, and make room for what's new. If it hadn't been for that stench, I might not have had a cleaning fit today. But I'm glad I did. The room fills a little airier and brighter than it did this morning. And having sat down to write a little, my mind does, too.