And all I have is gratitude...

It's been a quiet day. Typing those words, though, I think the quiet is mostly in my heart; an observer possibly wouldn't notice much of a difference. That is the blessing (usually) of having two young children; the world just keeps on turning. But that's kind of absurd, isn't it? That the world always does that, no matter what's happening -- the greatest joys, the greatest losses. Sometimes a strange and chaotic mixture of the two. No matter what happens, kids need the same things -- breakfast and diaper changes or help going to the potty or help with their puzzles and kisses when they fall and someone to hear their stories.

Our day was fairly normal, and normal is usually good. We had breakfast. We drove to West Seattle for cupcakes and playtime; we chatted with a papa and three-year-old son we've seen before. We had lunch. The kids had naps (or "quiet time," in Suzannah's case). I ran a couple of loads of laundry and cleaned the bathrooms. This evening, we went hiking at Saltwater Park and ate Thai food on the way home. Nothing extraordinary, although of course the sweetest memories of our summer days are built upon ordinary moments: Smiling across the table at my little girl as she licks frosting from her lips. Watching Isaac laugh and laugh at his sister as she copies the goofy faces I make at him. Walking down the street in the sunshine, wearing Isaac in the Ergo, Suzannah skipping beside me. Smiling to myself as my daughter says, "I can do it, Mommy," before she firmly closes the bathroom door.

I had a moment this afternoon when my children were asleep (rather, Isaac was asleep and Suzannah was lying quietly on her bed, immersed in a pile of books) and I was folding their clothes. They were warm from the dryer, and I was lost in the rhythmic motions of folding onesies and t-shirts and making little piles on our bed. The fan was blowing, and my house seemed so quiet and calm.

I'd love to say I meditated myself into some startling epiphany in that moment, some profound realization about the Meaning of Life, something about beauty and truth and simplicity, but it wasn't really like that. I was just folding my children's clothes and feeling rather satisfied about the neat little piles on my bed. But I superimposed that moment, that feeling of calm, over the thoughts that have been running through my head all day: right now, at this moment, my friend Dori is in surgery.

Tonight, I learned that the surgery went well and that she's awake. I know she has a grueling road ahead of her. I also know she has a really huge cheering section. I'm sure she'll update herself when she's feeling up to it, and if you missed the link before, I'll post it one more time: Lumps and Lipstick: I am NOT my breast cancer. She doesn't shrink from the story she has to tell, and it is a deep privilege to witness.

So I was thinking about her all day today, a steady current of hope and prayer within the usual clamor of my daily life. And as I folded those warm little shirts and pants and pajamas in my quiet house, I just thought, how is it that I'm not aware of each of these ordinary moments and brimming with gratitude? Not necessarily gratitude for, say, a pile of my husband's smelly socks or a bag full of poopy diapers to wash, but -- well. Maybe that. Maybe just the wonderfully, blissfully normal.

I kind of go back and forth between trying to be intentionally grateful for the many, many blessings in my life and being this crazy, stressed-out, anxious person who thinks her life will be so much better if she can just get everything organized enough. My friends once told me I'm like a hummingbird. Sometimes I feel like a hummingbird on too much coffee or, even worse, I understand exactly what Anne Lamott wrote about in Operating Instructions:

It is so fucking bizarre and excruciating just to be. Just to be still. I mean, except when I'm in church or nursing Sam, nothing can make me more frantic than sitting and trying to just be. Have you ever tried meditating? For me it's about as pleasant as coming down off cocaine. My mind becomes like this badly abused lab rat, turning in on itself after one too many bouts with mededrine and electroshock and immersion into ice water...

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm kind of a basket-case sometimes. I like to pretend that motherhood has made me all zen about everything, but that's a total lie. And sometimes -- often -- the things that turn me into a basket-case later cause me to roll my eyes and go, really? Shari, really? This is what had you curled up in a hysterical ball in the corner, or at least scribbling page after page of pro/con lists and irritating your husband to death with your endless processing? Good God, woman, have a glass of wine and go watch one of your Golden Girls DVD's and shut up already.

I don't want to get preachy here, and I'd love to say that learning that my beautiful, young friend just sacrificed her breasts to beat her cancer at the age of twenty-six means that I'll never bitch about my own body and my stretch marks and all my imperfections again. I'd love to believe that I'll never have a tantrum about something totally stupid or tell you that I'm over getting all worked up over nothing. I'm human, though, and I know better.

I can tell you, though, that it has made me stop and think and pray. That while I've been perhaps a little bit pissy with God lately, I've also been brought to my knees with gratitude. (I don't understand why I get to keep my breasts -- why most of us do -- and Dori doesn't; I suppose this is one of those terribly irritating life lessons or something, and all in good time, and everything will be revealed, and blah blah blah.) I have more than I deserve. And the ordinary, laundry-filled moments in which I get this -- these fleeting moments in which I get this -- well. I'm grateful for them indeed.