I’ve just lit the fire for the first time in over a month. It’s raining and cold and we don’t need to be anywhere so I’m settling in for a slow day. Mind you, slow doesn’t necessarily mean quiet; there’s already been arguments and tears over whose notebook is whose; nasty words thrown from one room to the next; a washing pile I’m ignoring and by midday, probably too many coffees downed.
Slow days don’t need expectations heaped upon them; we take them as they come, wandering through the hours without plans or lists. It’s on these days that you might feel inclined to bake a cake or have a bath or let the kids watch too much Netflix. Maybe pull some weeds or just watch them grow as you sit and sip something and ponder the big and little things.
Days without plans aren’t full of shouty obligations but the world is. And I think we’re all pondering the big things at the moment; race, class, the location noted on your birth certificate, epigenetic patterns of psychological stress, quiet grief because once a mother you feel for all mothers, such is the way pregnancy alters our brains to be more empathetic. Despite politics, we’re united in heartache.
When someone is grieving or navigating particularly challenging experiences - which so many are right now - we tell them to take care and go gently. But how do you action these well-meaning suggestions when life is busy and there’s barely space for an afternoon nap?