There is an insightful Yiddish fable about a man whose family is honestly driving him crazy. His sons are running wild, breaking every object in their path. His daughters are yelling, whining and arguing. His wife is constantly nagging him about the state of their finances, the state of their farm, and even about their unruly children. Seeking advice from his Rabbi, the beleaguered farmer is shocked to discover that, during his weekly visits begging for help, the Rabbi first suggests bringing the cow into the house, followed by the horses, the chickens, the ducks and rest of the barn's menagerie. Every week another group of animals adds to the cacophony of the already burdened man's fragile nerves. Week after week, his tolerance becomes stretched even further beyond what he believed were his limits. Finally, after months of this jarring racket, the Rabbi tells the overwrought, agitated fellow to bring the cows, the chickens, the horses, the geese, the ducks, the goats and the rest of the animals back to the barn. It's then that the miracle of the fable occurs: the farmer, no longer finding his anxiety overwhelmed by his family alone, thanks the Rabbi for fixing the "problem".
In Margot Zemach's children's book, "It Could Always Be Worse", she explores this same folk tale in an entertaining and age appropriate manner. It's a delightful book...and is special
to me because it was one I read to my own children when they were younger. Although I'd grown up knowing this story, being able to share the ideas from the book gave me a jumping off point to begin discussion about problems and how they're solved. The question my son and daughter asked, as do most of us, is "Why doesn't the farmer see that nothing has really changed?". The answer, of course, is that one's perspective changes, based upon the situation at that very moment. When we're stressed or tired or nervous we have a hard time making choices. We also have a hard time separating real problems from those we imagine. Small matters can become looming mountains to us. Crowds seem unbearable. We seek solitude. We hoard our quiet moments and lose the ability to function in a group. When we change our perspective, the same issues that caused us despair become trivial.
My house felt a bit like that of the farmer this past week. During an average week, my home consists of my 17 year old son (who is rarely home, due to his hockey travel schedule), my husband, our two enormous dogs and our one dramatic bunny. We lead busy lives. Our work, school and volunteer commitments are exceptionally time consuming. There are far more projects and chores at home than we have time for. The bills mount, the obligations loom and the stress builds. Over Thanksgiving week, my daughter arrived home from her prep school in
Massachusetts. It was magical to see her. Her friends also arrived to welcome her home. My peppy mother came to spend the holiday week with us from Arizona. Her best friend also came for tea. My husband's parents drove here from New Hampshire. They're great fun and always have a lot to offer, both to conversation and to household projects. My son's hockey team won a major victory and his pals came for a sleepover to celebrate. It was marvelous to have everyone at the house, but I have to admit, it all felt more than a little bit out of my control. There were people everywhere! At one point we had 13 people sleeping here. The noise level, the chaos, the wild feeling of groups doing their own activities in various parts of my home all at once was a little staggering. There were moments I felt as if I was a German Shepherd, trying to keep my flock on track, as well as entertained. There were moments in which I experienced a sense of running around in circles, accomplishing little but exhausting myself. I admit that there were instances during the week in which I felt completely incompetent as a hostess.
Yet, now that the guests have returned to their homes, and my precious girl is back at her school, the house feels far too quiet. There is no one to sit and coffee with. There isn't someone's 'little job' to oversee. There isn't a soul to joke with, argue with or talk with. There is no one to aggravate me or make me laugh until I cry. The silence is deafening. As much as my son's hockey teammates resemble the horses in the farmer's fable, coming into the house and stamping their hooves, I miss their presence. As much as my mom undoes everything I've done and redoes it her way, like a Mother Hen, I find that I'm now second guessing my own methods of housekeeping. While my daughter rolls her eyes at me and has to redress me, duck clucking as my outfits don't pass her fashion muster, I find myself stymied for what to wear today. My house may have felt like a barn this past week, but now it feels like a museum. There aren't four televisions blaring with four different shows competing with one another for aural superiority. There aren't hordes to feed. There is no one saying "Maaaaa....." in an exasperated voice...and with multiple generations using the same intonation. There is no foot stamping, door slamming or conflicting opinions. There is no raucous laughter and loud joke telling. The house is just the way it was just over a week ago....and yet it feels far more indistinct.
I have learned how much I appreciate both clamor and hush. I have discovered that I crave times of extroversion and times of inner contemplation. I have learned that I can love someone more than anything and be completely annoyed by them. I have found that, despite my shepherding tendencies towards control and direction, I'm able to let go and allow evenings to unfold on their own. I have observed that I can be a mother, a daughter, a hostess, a mere participant, a cook, an eater, a pesky badger and the harassed all at the same moment.
And, there is only three and a half weeks until Christmas.
A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.
~Herm Albright
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