taking care

I have no idea when or why I started taking care of things. Perhaps it started during my tenure as a latchkey kid...maybe it’s just hardwired. I, like many women, have an innate need to nurture.

What I do know is that now, at 32, taking care is the only thing that I know how to do.

In past lives, I’ve taken care of tasks, of teams, of people, of other people’s babies.

Those things are lost to me now. The pandemic has taken some of them from me; others I layed down to have this new life.

So now I take care of what I can: my sourdough starter. My growing collection of houseplants. My dog and three cats. My self-sufficient husband.

It never feels like enough. At the end of most days, I think, “Did I do anything worthwhile today?” Because apart from baking bread and watering plants and making dinner, it’s hard to say, “Yes.”

I guess that I’m still learning to take care—of myself, of a home, of a husband. I’m learning that I can’t take responsibility for everything, I can’t fix everything, I can’t do everything. 

I am learning to ferret out unhealthy thought patterns, assumptions, and fears. I am learning that I can say no to cake or an invitation, if that’s what’s best for me. I’m learning to accept help and love and gifts and doding on. 

I’m also learning to be okay with putting unfinished things, like this, into the world.