Late this morning, I retreated. I retreated to the lower floor of our house. I dragged a chair, one of those lightweight IKEA Poem Chairs that we’ve had since our first apartment in Baltimore Maryland, over to the spot of sun that was slipping in our patio door and splashing light on the tile.
I retreated.
I was trying to be helpful.
But, I was not.
I saw the frustration in the eyes of my senior. Earlier, we had some words.
Over something stupid.
I think one way and I thought he was thinking another.
But, no. We were on the same page.
Both looking for explanations for this current schooling situation when there are none.
I dug in and so did he.
He just wanted to know what something meant.
And, I explained too much.
So much, that my explanation ended in an ultimatum.
He didn’t need that, and truthfully, I didn’t need to say what I did.
But, I did.
So, I retreated.
I went to bask in the morning sunlight, sewing the remainder of my fabric masks
for our family and another.
I listened to music.
I soaked in the sun that I so badly needed as the stress of being couped up began to show.
This batch of masks is finished. I am helping. I am a helper.
But, being a helper has its limits.
This I know for sure.
For some reason, my experience earlier today reminded me of some early life experiences helping. I’ve always been a helper. In middle school, I went to help a teacher run dittos on the mimeograph machine (Yes, I am dating myself). In high school, I tutored a friend in biology. In college, I continued to be a peer tutor for our school of nursing. I’ve run a craft class at a local museum, developed community & school groups, and worked thousands of hours as a master gardener. There can be no doubt that I am a helper.
It goes like this:
Helping
Agatha Fry, she made a pie
And Christopher John helped bake it.
Christopher John mowed the lawn,
And Agatha Fry helped rake it.
Zachary Zugg took out the run,
And Jennifer Joy helped shake it.
And Jennifer Joy, she made a toy,
And Zachary Zugg helped break it.
And some kind of help
Is the kind of help
That helping’s all about.
And some kind of help
Is the kind of help
We can all do without.
By Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends, 1974.
My thoughts exactly!
Today is Poetry Friday! It is brought to us by NixTheComfortZone blog. Thank you for hosting!
The Apples in My Orchard 
Leave a reply to mbhmaine Cancel reply