Hidden in Monotony…

I’ve often heard it said that humans are creatures of habit. Whether habit or no, many are the daily tasks that one must perform in order to ensure Order be kept, maintained and, occasionally, given an extra polish.

Monotonous work–often used synonymously with terms like ‘tedious’, ‘droning’ and ‘boring’—comprises much of my day; early rising, splash of cold water upon the face, brush hair, teeth, wake the children, make coffee, get out the breakfast items for assembly (the children help assemble), search in the garden for ripe tomatoes, pick lettuce… herbs, wipe up mess after coffee…breakfast, dishes rinse, dishes ‘en washer’, sweeping, hugs and kisses for daddy as he leaves for work, check children’s outfits for stains/holes, check backpacks for stray items, bundle older kids off to school…

From then on there is more cleaning, laundry, gardening (a fancy word for pulling weeds), lunch for my youngest, cleaning up after lunch, more sweeping, mopping, wipe down counters, cupboards, refrigerator, microwave, appliances, table, chairs, vacuuming the office floor, hallway check for stray toys, bathroom 1 cleaning, bathroom 2 cleaning, fold laundry, hang shirts, et cetera.

Reading the above even I have to admit it sounds daunting for such to be worked on in the same way, every day. However, despite the apparent repetitious nature of my diurnal endeavors, I found (some years ago) that there is–hidden in monotony–a resource far more precious than any money can buy.

Time.

Having finished these tasks there is suddenly time for play, for singing, for dancing, for reading, for writing, for smelling of roses, for sewing, for projects, for laughter and all the things that make life just a little bit better. In contrast I do have several friends whom hire people to do for them the ‘housekeeping’ work that I do daily; they arrive home each night to an enviably clean domicile… exhausted. I used to think ‘how nice it would be to–like them–have a maid and have all that time freed up’, but to my surprise they inform me that those little bits of time that I procure all but escaped them. They constantly wonder where Time has gone.

Monotony has its uses; efficiency in movements is one. Having discovered that spare time lies hidden in finished tasks, I found ways to speed up those tasks to fruition… to get them over with, as soon as humanly possible. The end result is worth it: to be able to romp and play with tiny feet just a bit more, to type a few more lines, or read a bit more prose, to laugh at one more amusement, to smell one more rose. There is an additional comfort in these monotonous toils; alongside me floats an invisible badge, the insignia of a group of women, like myself, that over the several millenniums of human existence have found joy in the lifelong career of keeping home. It is world-wide club, encompassing women of all classes, colors and clothes whom daily wash, sweep, launder, cook, comfort, mop, watch children, teach… and live.

Tedious? Droning? Boring? I think not.

Why Poetry?

I am a poet. Since the age of fourteen I have bent my pen and thought towards pouring out the lyrical corners of my soul onto paper. Often received was the ‘why’ from peers, family and even friends. Admittedly, there is little market for poetry volumes these days. Much of the younger generations tend to attribute poetry to the realm of homework, or as an old fashioned method of expression; the best man could do before ‘texting’ was invented.

Upon reflection, I can understand the parameters of this mindset, schoolwork mentality notwithstanding; good, true poetry requires time to produce, not to mention a bit of concentrated thought. Trying to ‘text’ poems would be arduous; the very idea brings to mind a person on a hill, trying to fervently communicate recipes in semaphore. Poem materials are generally old-fashioned, such as notebook and pen; however, several of my poet acquaintances use naught but Word and a laptop to compose their prose.

Time is the greatest luxury item of all and most fine, worthy things call for a sizable share of it. Poetry requires an additional expense: Truth. The words themselves open a small portico in the soul of the writer and unlike literature the general public is then invited in to peruse at will and scrutinize. They are directed in a steady stream up velvets roped paths; onlookers stop and view each line, weighing both effect and meaning. Some browsers give a philosophical nod and move on; some shake their heads in puzzlement. A few, however, will stand and ponder and walk away uplifted, even moved.

Such is poetry; it can be mere scribbles on a paper napkin scented with the oily perfume of diner french fries. It can be typed up via PC and left to breaths while the poet searches for the perfect, subtle font in which to ‘set the mood’. The presentation method matters not, for though humbly shown or elegantly tinted the lines will be treated equally; each word will be read aloud or, whispered, audibly tested and savored for the complete poetic experience.

Poetry can expound on anything, anywhere to anyone; unconstrained by literary requirements, opinion or the woes of advertising trends, poems allow one to un-tap emotion (whether all of it, or a merely portion thereof) letting it drip down and run over the page. Something as simple as a string of thoughts, inspired by some action or scene, can provoke the most profound interest in humans; it spans race, time and cultures.

Nothing seems to incite curiosity in our fellow man more than how others see the world and what they are thinking. After a few false starts, we even begin to understand Shakespeare’s perspective, by the penning of his lines. The views and genius of Wordsworth, Elliot and Keats hold relevance even for the most agile and dedicated texter.

A breath… a moment… a look at a few lines… a pause to reflect and enjoy… a reverie. A true poet causes simultaneous interest and idyll… a tear and a sigh… recollections and shouts. They write not for fame, for there is but little to go around in this sphere; they write for themselves. As to how it is done, nothing is simpler: the moment is either captured or it is not.

A poet must write; there is no ‘why’.

Meredith Greene