I’ve got a list of things I wanted to do today (I’m a bit of a list fanatic), but I’m sitting here with one of the girls at urgent care. It’s another earache with another fever and another day of administering meds and comfort. My heart breaks for her.
And how coincidental? I was just looking at the top post of last month which is my write-up about Karl Ove Knausgaard (author of the 3,600 page ‘novel’ My Struggle) and the duty and privilege of taking care of family. I continue to be mystified about why this topic and post has such an abiding interest for so many people. Caring for family is a duty and – I’ll say it – can be odious and difficult. But there is privilege there, too. And maybe, if you can find it, a deep joy. Knausgaard’s struggle is in his identification with his work. He is a writer! A scholar! A deep thinker of deep thoughts! His work is important! But, he makes no money, so his wife works while he finds time between dirty diapers, cooking, and carting kids back and forth to school. No one of such towering stature and promise should do such menial work!
I do the same thing to a degree. I have a dozen hobbies and interests and juggle them all. It’s easy to think that finishing this one more thing is the most important thing I have to do. But that’s not what’s important to the girls or to my wife. They have their agenda for me, too, which is mostly to spend more time with me. Just simple time. Isn’t that a sweet and lovely thing to want? And as trite as it sounds, time is what binds us.
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