By Catherine Viel, April 25, 2023
(Golden Age of Gaia)
April 24, 2023
…I swear in the days still left
We’ll walk in fields of gold
~Sting, Fields of Gold
Whenever we’re expecting a visitor, I start channeling my prairie women ancestresses. Time to pin the braided rugs on the jute clothesline and whack with the rug beater. Gather wildflowers from the far end of the field, arrange them lovingly in a Mason jar atop the beeswax-polished table. When the buggy clatters up the beaten dirt road, we embrace those we’ve not seen for years. Welcome, welcome.
There’s no rugs to beat, and we’ve got a nice Waterford vase for the flowers. In some ways, that long-ago woman’s life was simpler than mine. Spiffing the place up for a beloved visitor only added a task or two to the activities required of homesteading homemakers. That tough prairie woman was used to working hard, sunup to sundown, and the rare occasion of an out-of-town visitor would likely have sweetened the workload.
*****
I fully intended to do some spiffing up before our visitor arrives in a few days. I made a list, dutifully adding things until it grew to an alarming length. But just a day later, I compared those tasks to what I really wanted to do, and realized they didn’t match.
Am I afraid of our visitor’s disapproval, if the place isn’t dusted, vacuumed, and polished? If there’s weeds in the pathway and calla lilies that need deadheading?
I must have a poor opinion of this longtime friend if I imagine she’d be frowning at the weeds and dead flowers, tut-tutting at the smudgy windows. Surely that’s my projection, as the psychologists might say, rather than her reality.
*****
The notion of not doing the list would typically cause a sinking-gut feeling. Oh, dear, it’s not going to look nice. Surely that’s disrespectful to this friend, to not show our brightest face in welcome.
But…in the heart of my heart, I know this simply isn’t so. The need to make things as perfect as possible emanates from a wounded pocket of self. It’s an end-run around judgment and disapproval. Not from the friend. She would no more judge me than I would her, should I visit her cheerfully chaotic home on the East Coast.
Could it be, could it possibly be, that I’ve climbed a rung on the ladder of self-acceptance? I have fully dropped the list. I’m going to do just the tasks I truly want to do. The things I would do anyway, with or without a guest in the wings.
If I want to polish things up, or pick flowers for the gorgeous Waterford vase, it will be from a quietly pleased place, because it’ll make me happy. Not from a wounded need for approval.
*****
A deep breath spontaneously fills my lungs with the pure energy of air. This, this is acceptance. It’s peaceful. It’s calm. There’s nothing frantic or worried about it.
Joy approaches cautiously. It will be fun, with this friend, to admire the profusion of calla lilies, even the ones browning about the edges. We’ll visit the half-finished pathway on the side of the house and laugh at the absurdity of Home Depot running out of steppingstones mid-project.
There’s no room for joy to blossom when I’m worried over things that absolutely don’t matter. When I’m enmeshed in chores that are on nobody’s to-do list but mine, and which I approach with grim determination.
I believe such conundrums will become a thing of the past, and in the delights of the fifth dimension, a symbiosis might occur between ourselves and our environments, each supporting the other, neither trapped in a caretaker’s role. Until then, our relationships with our surroundings can continue to reflect our foibles and offer soul wisdom, if we are open to such mundane lessons.
