Nurturing Yourself

Esther Leisher writes:

“What do you do for yourself? How often I was asked that when I had four children at home. I was obviously pouring myself into what I considered my profession (family life), and it must have looked like I was making great sacrifices. I wasn’t. I was pretty much doing what I wanted to do. You are a creative artist working with the substance of everyday life. You learn to be true to the heart of the music but play it in your own style.

An example from my own life is Saturday mornings. I was strongly disinclined to get up. My husband left early to work on the community water system or do volunteer work at our country fire station. The older children locked themselves in their rooms, busy keeping the younger ones out and avoiding the chores that had to be done on Saturday mornings.

I always felt that after five days of conscientious attention to caring for the children, I needed a break. Saturday mornings had to be different, something to look forward to. Since there is nothing I find more soothing than beauty — art books, beautiful illustrations, handmade wooden puzzles, art cards — that’s what I did with the kids on Saturday mornings. (You of course have probably already found your own restorative activities, things that are uniquely your own.)

On Saturdays I wanted to stay in bed and relax into beauty. The younger children had their breakfast set out for them the night before (muffins and juice, maybe). They got up and ate breakfast, played a little and then came to find me. If I asked, they brought me something simple to eat and drink (a cup of yogurt and some water?) and we sat up in my bed and enjoyed beautiful things together.

We had some remarkable handmade wooden puzzles from Europe that were only taken down when company came. Except for Saturday mornings. Then we chose one and worked with it. The puzzles came in a special frame and case. We slid off the clear glass cover and took turns taking one piece out of the wooden frame at a time, carefully laying each piece on the cover. When all pieces were out, we took turns replacing them. I let the children put in the larger, simpler pieces and always chose the less obvious ones. Of course they needed some subtle suggestions now and then as to where something might fit. (Puzzles are one of those wonderful “from wholes to parts” activities, something to remind us that we came from unity, a unity now broken into fragments here on earth, and our job is to restore the unity.)

Then came the children’s books, the books with beautiful illustrations that I never got to really look at — except on Saturday mornings. I read to the kids all week; but on Saturday morning we only looked at the illustrations. “Look how the ribbon of her dress floats out behind her.” “How strong the farmer’s hands are.” “The little girl is lifting up her arms to the sun.” “What a marvelous wheelbarrow.” I only made comments, did not ask the children any questions. Questions would have taken the experience out of the realm of art and delight and into analysis and intellect.

Art cards were next. We had a generous stack of them because everywhere we went we collected art cards. Those mornings I looked and looked to my heart’s content (so much variety, such vastly different styles) while I made up little scenarios.

Utrillo’s Paris: “Someone is just around that corner, ready to peep out and see if his lost cat is on that street.”

Van Gogh’s sunflowers: “I think a friend gave them to him and their beauty moved his heart .”

Or the blue chair in the painting of his room: Who knows what significance that chair might have, or maybe it had some mysterious quality. “Whoever sat on it always had to tell the truth.”

“What did the gloomy cypress trees think about that man who stared at them for so long while he painted them? They probably felt he was becoming like a cypress tree and they had a fellow feeling for him.”

Asian art with the tiny, overburdened person against the looming mountains: “The man is going somewhere. He is carrying wood for his village and the mountains watch him pass each day.” Soon the children began to add their own comments, and I spent most of the time just looking.

Paul, from the age of four, was entranced with the art cards and to this day has a passion for art . Laurel got bored and went off to do her own drawings. Now as an adult she notices beauty but still prefers to create her own.

Here’s another answer to “What did you do for yourself?” When the youngest child was about 2 years old, and I was feeling that parenthood was taking a very long time, I decided to fit some spiritual exercises into my day (I was so tired at night). I chose the development of focused thinking and focused will. I did the brief thinking exercise suggested by Steiner in the early morning (2-5 minutes). The will exercise I fit into the children’s day.

In the will exercise you choose to do the same thing–something that does not need to be done–at a certain time each day. There is no reason for it, and you do not have any feelings of like or dislike. You want to focus on just pure will for one month. At 8:10 a.m. I put on a tape of the life of Bach, found the song that he wrote for Maria Theresa and sang along with it. “Yah feen. Yah feen. Ya-a-a-a-a-ah feen.”

The children looked on in surprise; it kept them fascinated while I got my will exercise done. When I look back now I hope I was also humanizing the recording, giving something to them as well as myself. And besides, where else were they likely to hear Bach? (That will development exercise went on to include other unlikely projects and brought the children a measure of

amusement.)

I could also mention the almost daily walks that gave me time to think about adult things. I would announce before we went out for a walk that something needed to be done or something needed to be put away before we left. While they did those things I quickly read a paragraph or two in whatever thought-provoking book I had taken up. Then we were off.

They were happy — the walk included a tree with a low branch that could be ridden like a horse, a sandy patch for playing, a natural “rock garden” whose rocks could be rearranged into rooms or forts or whatever. They played and I thought. With a toddler and a baby in a stroller I had to do a little more talking and interaction, but even then there was a special tree to look at (the “alligator

tree”) and predictable events along the way as a focus for their attention — the horse, the big house, the picnic table at the field, the place in the woods to play the flute. In the unendingly busy years of caring for young children and later homeschooling, I got an amazing amount of reading done.

What do you do for yourself? You create a family life that includes you. Then you are not bitter later that no one appreciated all the sacrifices you made for them. You didn’t make any sacrifices; you felt satisfied. Later you will remember that it wasn’t always easy, but you were doing what you wanted to do.

Of course in the midst of it I did sometimes feel sorry for myself. It was heart breaking for me when my husband would take the older kids off to a used book sale and I had to stay home with two really small children — left at home again, and on a weekend. Suddenly you feel so lonely and so deprived.

Those are the times you give yourself a chance to cry, but then you resolve to make the best of it at the moment — and see that it never happens again. There will be times when you feel that everyone is going places and doing fun things except you. Be prepared for such catastrophes. Remember that you need to get out of the house. Think of something you can do at those times. Find a babysitter. Or do something with a friend whose husband works on Saturdays. Unhappy times are part of life; plan ahead so that you can avoid most of them.

What have you found works for you? How do you avoid feeling that it is all too much? Do you get a babysitter so you can have 2 afternoons a week off? Does your husband take the kids on Saturday? Do a group of friends trade off with you? We’d all love to hear from one another.

–Esther Leisher