"Who says a woman's work isn't high art? . . . She'd shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts, cut lacy lattices for all her pies. Her woman's work was nothing less than art." Julia Alvarez, "Woman's Work" (poem)
"She . . works with eager hands . . . She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks . . . her lamp does not go out at night . . . she watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness." Proberbs 31:13b, 17, 18b, and 27
I had one of those dreams again.
Those frantic, beat the clock
alarm sounding, impatient knock
everyone's watching, scrubbing the stain
just about to miss the train
like trying to guess and concoct
some half-destroyed recipe,
where the measuring cups are in Arabic
and none of the pans are truly non-stick
I keep adding a teaspoon of whatever
scrambling, racing, chasing the endeavor
but it never seems to taste just right
Did you know there's no turkey in turkish delight?
I can hear them in the living room
expecting a feast ready to consume
buzzers sound, and the micrwave beeps
Then I scream and wake up from my sleep
that afternoon I watch my little girl
play in the sand box in her own little world
creating important jobs for herself
like a cute, pink-cheeked, busy little elf
counting the dusty scoops of sand
delighting in the squishy wet in her hand
a mushy, gushy plastic paradise
she seems so determined to be precise
her castles never last, holes always refill
someone will come and flatten that hill
but there is joy in the job, and accomplishment
Just swimming around in her little moment.
And that's when I was ashamed of my dream.
Thank you, Lord, for reminding me of the gift of woman's work.
And thanks for my two bedroom, two bath, sand box.