“Grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.” -G.K. Chesterton
But these are no monotonous lives. Not for the living, at least.
The living are those who have cultivated rich landscapes of interiority. They are the ones with the spaces between their words and the silence behind their eyes. They are the ones who make time to think, to feel, and to ponder. Life is nourished by the pondering, is reconnected to its source.
By the time I put the baby to sleep, these words feel hollow. Too tired for thinking, too used up for feeling, not yet ready for sleep, all I can do is scroll through the news on my phone, stories that are curated so poorly that they are worse than social media (grisly family murders and "lose ten pounds in a week with this secret ingredient"). When my husband calls to say he's on his way, I reluctantly start cleaning the day's worth of toddler carnage (it's impossible to clean while she's awake).
Someday she'll be grown and I'll "miss these days." That's what they all say, anyway.
But it's already late and I have to wake up at 5:30. For now, all I miss is sleep.