Yesterday, I Cried Over Dust

 

Yesterday, I cried while cleaning the bathroom.

Not because anything terrible had happened. Not because there had been bad news or a family crisis. I cried over dust.

That may sound ridiculous. It certainly did to me. But the dust wasn't really the problem.

There is so much to do, every hour, every day. I have been dancing to this tune for the last eighteen years, after deciding that teaching in Israel is not for me. And that I would like to raise my daughter directly, not by proxy.

When I left the workforce, I did it consciously. I loved teaching, but it consumed more of me that I was willing to give.

It wasn’t easy. I felt as though I’d misplaced myself. Not because I’d made the wrong decision, but because I no longer recognized the person I had become.

And gradually, little by little I became the center of a small newly-born Universe. All of our house gravitated around me, matching its rhythm to mine.

I fought back. I wrote poems, a blog, essays, a book. I read a voraciously. I did whatever I could to keep myself above water, not to drown. Even though sometimes the storms were too powerful and I was weak.

When times were really awful, a sort of desperation followed me everywhere, like a toxic cloud. I asked myself all the what if’s and the why’s, I lay awake at night, listening to my thoughts telling me I am a loser, a good for nothing. As if one’s achievements in life are measured only by the number of zeroes in your income.

It is true, there were times I felt invisible. The mother in the back, the wife in the background. I felt like every chore, every task I ever done was weighing on me, keeping me down, crushing me.

Yesterday, while wiping away another layer of dust, that feeling returned. My daily struggle with the dust that settles everywhere with an incredible speed.

Everything felt so senseless, so useless. Yesterday, it was the dust. Other days, it was the dishes, the washing up, the cooking. You do all of them, and then, almost magically, you are back at square one. More dirty dishes, the fridge is empty, there are no clean clothes. You have the impression that you never finish anything. Most of the jobs have a sense of achievement, of satisfaction. A thing well done. Finished. Building something. Handing in a project. Even the school year. Housekeeping? Never. You wage a continuous battle with dust, dirt, mess, all at once.

After I finished cleaning and I washed the dust, mixed with tears from my face I just took a break. My arms hurt, my back, too. I am not young anymore.

I took a big breath. I made myself a coffee. I even frothed the milk. I took Klara the cat with me and sat on the couch. Watched some old, silent black and white movie with Buster Keaton, and I surprised myself laughing at it.

And I’ve decided, yes, I finally decided I will stop fighting the dust. I will accept its existence in my house. With a busy road underneath our building, and the sea filling the air with salt and humidity, fighting dust is a lost battle even before it starts.

I won’t happen overnight, this “transformation”. I know there will still be days when armed with a rag or a mop I will wage war on the dirt and dust. But I won’t have unreal expectations from myself, I won’t judge myself by the cleanliness of my house or the number of home-made meals I serve in a week.

I will try to be me. The mother, the wife, the caregiver, the cat rescuer, the writer, the blogger, the bookworm, the poet, the housekeeper. And I know the world will still be here tomorrow, with good and bad and messes and judgmental people and trouble and heartbreak. But so will I.