Say More: At Last She Writes It

No. 21 | August 2024

*A message from our curator

Every two weeks I get the amazing opportunity of curating “Say More” and deciding on a loose theme to give direction and meaning to each issue. Some themes are more obvious than others, but I felt that the theme for this issue could use a short commentary. I hope this will help you realize the power of the theme and how it works within this week’s issue.

As I read through each of the following pieces, I was struck with how intimate, intense and vulnerable they all are. I stepped away from each piece thankful that the author had invited me into their world, trusted me with their story and let me know more about them. It made me remember that if I saw one of them on the street, at my meeting house, at school drop off, I would have no idea of the complexity of their private life. In an existence now run by social media where each moment can be carefully curated and presented, I think it’s easy to forget a fundamental truth of the world: life is messy. Love, goodness, and joy are all inherent in this human life. So too are grief, mundanity, and disappointment.

In the day to day rush of our lives, we often switch off our compassion and curiosity in favor of assumptions and judgment. Let’s not forget that we can never know what is truly going on in the lives of others unless we are willing to be vulnerable and curious ourselves.

-Blakelee

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A Day in the Life

by Brianna

You are startled awake by the frustrated whimpers

of a hungry infant—as you lift him in to your arms, you peer through the cracks between the curtain panels to see the street lights still on, untouched by the sunrise. In a state of muffled wakefulness you pull your phone close to your face, squinting to see if any important emails have come through, even though you are not involved in anything that would lead to receiving an important email. You drift between dreams and wakefulness until your husband stirs, notices that you are awake, and begins to caress your legs, grasping for bare flesh despite your winter sleepwear. You pull away, which only makes him press his body against you harder, so you allow him to awaken you with the sharpness of unease. 

You lay the baby down when your older child enters the room, demanding television, cereal, a bath, and your focused attention on his current interest. You send him off with something to keep him busy so you can stumble through your cluttered house, picking up random bits of the night before: wrappers from your husband’s late-night snacking, a diaper thrown in the vicinity of the bathroom trash, clothing abandoned by the shower door. As your eldest vies for your attention again you offer him a bowl of sugar disguised as food with a promise of playing together soon, even though you know that “soon” will likely be hours from now. You pull on clothes that no longer fit and avoid the mirror.

You watch your husband come down the stairs after having spent time reading, studying, and preparing his mind for the day—you resent him for it. He leaves to go for the run he can’t get through the day without, and you drink a glass of caffeinated water to muster the energy to do the dishes. You remember when you had time to exercise. “That was nice,” you think, knowing that even if you did have time now, you wouldn’t have the energy.

The baby cries again. And again. Each time you set him down you get a few steps of one task done—eat four raisins. Wipe up one cereal spill. Put on the toddler's left sock. Scrape mac & cheese from two dining room chairs. You put in one headphone and listen to late night television monologues, just in case you talk to someone who comments on current events and need to make a witty remark. Then you switch to cleaning videos, hoping the sounds of others’ hard work will motivate you. It doesn’t.

While you feed the baby you scroll through articles about being a more present mother, tuning out your child’s impressive description of sea creatures and their habitats. You recognize the irony, but you don’t put down your phone—you just try to interject noncommittal noises when he pauses to take a breath. Part of you knows you are searching for any spark of connection, but you push that down. Ten minutes later you feel guilty. You offer to read him a book, but he screams no and cries. You give in and allow him to watch YouTube videos instead. 

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You are sure you were accomplishing something important, but you can’t remember what it was. 

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You need to soothe some of your guilt, so you talk to your baby, singing him little songs as you fold laundry at the speed of molasses on a cold day. He smiles up at you. You begin to cry, because you know you aren’t giving him the attention he deserves. You try to turn off the older one’s television show, but he cries so hard that you give him five more minutes, which somehow morphs into forty five. You are sure you were accomplishing something important, but you can’t remember what it was.