** I should mention that the title of these posts are the prompts from my instructor
Everytime I sit down to write, two things come to mind: my father and
my children. I would love for some fantastic character to embody my
writing, to lift me out of some of these recurring obsessions and
immersions. But, that character and her story doesn't exist yet. Some
days I feel like I must not have a story to tell because there are few
stories immediately around me, save the ones that already dominate
Huffington Post and Mommy blogs ("42 reasons my toddler is crying," "Are
Women Doing It All," "Why You Should Get In the Picture, Mom"). Enough
of that. And some days, like today, when I'm smelling apples baking
and the perfect album plays on my computer and I've finished some work, I
believe I am just where I'm supposed to be.
The other day, I
thought, "What does it matter what I'm doing or not doing, since life is
so unknowable?" And, yet, there is a pang, at the center of my gut
that, really, because life is short and so fragile, my job is to make it
better for someone. And am I doing that? Perhaps, through the menial,
daily toils of raising children. Perhaps.
I found a letter from
my father the other day. He wrote it to me when I was 17, not knowing
he would be dying in just 4 short years. I was out with my friends, he
told me. It was my birthday, my golden birthday. 17 on the 17th. What
he said was that he was proud of the person I had become, that I was a
friend to many, and that he knew I would "positively impact the people
and institutions with which I came in contact." What he meant was, you
are a good person, Erin, and have something powerful to give out of your
love of people and the world. I know this. And I thank whatever
synchronistic power brought that letter out of hiding, almost exactly 17
years later to the day, to remind me that what he said was so very real
to him, as a father, reflecting on his daughter and the effort he had
put into raising her to be this person. A person he believed could
change things. And, perhaps, just perhaps, these are the moments
outside of more menial moments, that we find the most rewarding: the
joy of believing we have done good work and that good work will continue
to be done.
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