Stories

I am writing two stories. One is on paper, and the other is on the heart of my sweet Rosé.

Life does not feel nor appear to be as productive as it once did. These days, I am often drawn away from a chore or from writing to tend to my baby, who happens to be excessively attached to me. She also becomes swiftly bored or frustrated with the toys we offer her; often, she is most content when we are in the hammock or strolling, immersed in nature. The other afternoon, lying on the sand beside the lake of my childhood, shaded from the bald sun by an umbrella, Rosé listened quietly to the susurrus of waves before drifting into sleep. I think my husband and I may have created a baby who will see her God in beauty, just as I do.

And so I see how vital it is that I take the time needed to nurture the heart of Rosé, to murmur tender words into her ears and smother her cheeks with kisses. To pause in the middle of a paragraph to pick her up, cradle her, show her this world given her by God, and add another paragraph to the story unfolding as she unfolds.

Even so, I often feel I ought to be doing something other than snuggling on the couch, or swinging in the hammock, or wandering around the farmyard—but then I remind myself: does cleaning the dishes or washing the laundry or writing a blog have more value than nurturing this small, eternal one? Long after the dishes are put away, the laundry folded, the blog posted, she will live on. Yes, those duties must be accomplished, for they too have value, but never at Rosé’s cost. I want my child to remember her mother as one who never valued efficiency over the time I spent with her, forming her heart. Loving her is indeed productive, no matter what the dirty dishes may say.

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