Last night I finished reading Backman’s Britt-Marie Was Here. I reflect on how much I relate to Britt-Marie. I too, have spent years caring and putting energy into making sure things are done in the correct way, in order to forestall and avoid conflict of any kind. That way, I reason, when conflict and crisis does occur, at least everything will be manageable and leave me in a position of being able to manage it. I am my own foregone conclusion.
My younger self believed that doing things correctly every time was a way for me to control the universe. If I hung out the socks in pairs, the world might end, and it would be my fault, because there was always an odd sock left at the bottom of the basket. Not wanting the world to end, I did my utmost to prevent that, by doing everything correctly. Boy did I regret it when I did fail, and things did go wrong, or someone I loved got hurt, or whenever I made a simple mistake. Although I have consciously let go of that magical thinking, it remains easier to blame myself, rather than hold others accountable and responsible for doing things that affect me and those I love.
I am a superb manager. I’m laughing at myself, queen of my domain, trying not to be smug as I tour my patch of country, absorbed by mundane tasks, taking in with pleasure the smells and the dampness of the earth, saying hello to the chickens, feeding the fish, checking on the portulaca I spread out in the poppy patch yesterday, moving the sprinklers, stroking the cats, flowing from one small task to another, and enjoying every moment of it. I plan what I will do next – feed the chooks, move the sprinkler, collect the seven sunburned quinces, hang out the washing, move the sprinkler, wash the dishes, chop the quinces, empty the compost, turn on the slow cooker, turn off the sprinkler and go walking with Chestnut. I even find the A5 envelopes I was sure were somewhere in our capacious cupboards, perfect for mailing the photographs I promised to post for Brown Owl.
Last night I finished reading Backman’s Britt-Marie Was Here, but I found it hard to let go of the novel and get to sleep. I wanted a more conclusive ending, even though the point of the novel was that there was no point. What will happen next? Maybe Britt-Marie will make some unexpected choices?
I listen to the night sounds of Kilburn. People leave, car doors slam, conversations drift... Someone whistles merrily on the footpath outside our home. I quiver uneasily, wandering through my mental checklist to ensure I’ve kept my side of the bargain and done everything I possibly can to secure the house against intruders. I breathe deeply, start listing fruits and vegetables in alphabetical order to soothe myself to sleep. The whistling continues. I am lulled, almost asleep, stalled on the letter ‘u’ when my mind bursts abruptly into explosions of colour as the merry whistler changes his tune and lets out an almighty bellow, just for the fun of it, I suppose, right outside our house. It is strange how stress and fear makes me see sound in a way that I usually don’t.
I nudge the brick to prop open the side gate, where its broken profile aligns perfectly against the corrugated iron. Birds crisscross in the sky, shrieking and oblivious to my gaze. Hello lorikeets, I say. Hello galahs!
How much of my being and my doing do I spend in avoiding conflict? What don’t I know that I don’t know; what lies behind that veil? What is my pay-off for managing the lives of my family with such finesse? What do I lose by prioritizing other people’s comfort at the cost of my inner world? If I were to draw my life as a pie chart, how big would I allow my slice of selfishness to be? And besides, I hasten to redirect myself – no one has asked me not to be myself; no one has asked me not to place the needs of others ahead of my own needs; I have created my own life and therefore I must lie in it.
Britt-Marie does not avoid conflict. She says what she thinks because it’s the right thing to do, and damn the consequences for anyone else. She is always right, (not that she’s judging). She stays silent when that is the right thing to do. She believes (as do I) that she is doing her best, that she has a wonderful life, that there’s nothing she’s missing if she says there’s not. She weeps into a towel in the stillness of the night because she is overwhelmed and scared and has no one to turn to for comfort, because that’s the way her life turns out despite her best intentions.
Some people wouldn’t recognize an indirect reference to themselves it if came labelled with a name tag. Wizard’s not like that. The other night when I'm putting him to bed, he struggles with getting the covers just right and he absently calls me an idiot. I’m not an idiot, I mutter in response and he goes rigid, upset by the inference. He proceeds to climb out of bed and into ours, refuses to speak, refuses to be comforted, won't accept my apology until I make him a bed on the floor, drag his unresponsive dead weight onto it, rub his back and sing him to sleep before getting into my own bed next to Brown Owl to continue reading about Britt-Marie. As soon as I turn off the light, Wizard appears in our bed again, so I leave him to it and sleep on the floor in his room instead. I feel terrible for burdening the small boy with a label he doesn’t deserve and has no way of resisting. I know I will have to make it right with him in the morning, because he’s not an idiot. Neither am I.
Jack (of Hearts) is so heartily bored on Sunday afternoon that he lies moaning along the top of the couch like a panther with a stomachache, while Brown Owl doggedly tries to get her school work done at the desk beside him. I’m outside in the poppy patch, spreading out the portulaca seedlings that are popping up in clumps, so I put my head in the window and offer to kick the footy with him. He is sullen at first, but when he understands that my offer is genuine, he relaxes. We have a great interaction until he is ready to stop. I don’t call quits, even though part of me is bored and the portulaca is calling. It’s Sunday afternoon, I tell myself. This doesn’t happen very often. Maybe it’s not the way it is supposed to be, but this is the way it is. I smile. I mark. I kick. I encourage, strengthening the bonds between us.
I love my life in so many ways. I feel smug. I feel privileged. I feel entitled. I feel lucky. I feel safe, most of the time. I feel like my head’s above the water and I’m treading strongly in the right direction. Until the moment it all stops, and I don’t. Because making change takes courage and grit. My life is far from gritty – I’ve worn the edges smooth by my need to keep things pleasant and calm. I endeavour to see only what I want to see, and to wipe away anything that sticks out in a dangerous or unsightly manner.
The knowledge that change will only occur through my instigation unsettles me like gluten unhinges my small intestine. I don’t want to be uncomfortable. But if I continue to make do, to inhabit the periphery, to seek solace and pleasure only in the ephemeral, I will stay here, treading water and getting nowhere.
Naturally, it’s easier for me to consider making changes that will benefit the children first, and me incidentally.
In my heart of hearts I know that things are not the way they are supposed to be. I cannot maintain our life the way it is supposed to be. Something has to give. Something has to bend, or break. I don’t intend that something to be me, because I’ve been bent and I’ve been broken and that wasn’t much fun.
So who gets to say how things are supposed to be?
I want to see things the way they are. The magic is in seeing what is, acknowledging what is, and being in the now, rather than projecting oneself endlessly into the illusion of some perfect future.
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