When I returned from my silent retreat, it was Sunday around 1 p.m.
I had just spent a rich, slow, intentional weekend surrounded by quiet and nature. And then I walked back into a home under construction, a makeshift basement kitchen that was a disaster, dog hair on the floor, stuff everywhere.
One of my kids came home from playing golf, flopped into the La-Z-Boy, pulled out his phone, and asked me to make him lunch.
I’ll give him credit. He did ask how the silent retreat was.
And I was thrown into quite a mood.
Have you ever heard of the second arrow?
It’s a Buddhist analogy for what happens when something difficult occurs. The first arrow is the thing itself: the pain, discomfort, frustration, disappointment. The second arrow is what we add to it: our resistance, judgment, and story about what is happening.
There was certainly a first arrow that afternoon.
I had gone from quiet, spaciousness, nature, and very few demands to noise, mess, construction, children, animals, and responsibilities. My system did not particularly enjoy the transition.
But the second arrow was probably more painful:
I just got back from a silent retreat. Shouldn’t I feel more accepting? More at ease? More peaceful?
I felt anything but.
Once some of that settled, though, something became quite clear.
I began noticing all the roles and responsibilities I have here at home. Yes, many of them are simply things that need to get done.
But there is also so much I have fallen into because we have given it names like responsibility, thoughtfulness, caring, self-sacrifice, being a good mother, being a good wife.
These are virtuous words.
And sometimes those things arise completely naturally.
Other times, I’m starting to notice, they happen despite what might actually be true here.
I’m in the middle of something and a child asks me to do something he could reasonably do himself.
Something in me knows:
I’m in the middle of this right now. Can you handle that yourself?
But the thoughtful mom swoops in:
Sure, buddy. Happy to help.
A text comes through from another parent:
Yes, I can take your child to his sporting event tomorrow. I’m hoping I can get there on time.
Instead of simply saying, Thank you, I immediately start looking for a way to make her generosity more comfortable for me.
Wait, could I make this easier for her? Maybe I should get them next time. Could I pick up her daughter? What can I offer in return?
I might even offer something I don’t particularly want to do, or can’t realistically do, because I want to be someone who is thoughtful.
Or I’m exhausted at the end of the day. I haven’t seen my youngest much, so I offer to read him a story before bed.
Part of me genuinely wants that connection.
And another part of me just wants to crawl into bed and read my own book.
Sometimes I push through anyway because that is what a good mother does.
I’m beginning to think of these moments as tiny abandonments.
Not dramatic betrayals of myself. Nothing anyone else would even notice.
Just tiny moments when something feels true, and I leave it almost immediately.
