Sometimes abundance looks remarkably similar to chaos when you’re standing in the middle of it.
This morning, my bed was warm. The autumn chill had settled into the air, I had managed somewhere between two and four hours of sleep, and every tired cell in my body appeared to be holding an emergency meeting.
The vote was unanimous. Absolutely not. Stay here. Pull the blankets higher. Close your eyes. Perhaps if you remain perfectly still, nobody will require anything from you.
Unfortunately, blankets are liars.
Beyond that glorious little cocoon was a life already waiting for me, and none of this assorted life-business is going to do itself.
I have an adult son with complex disabilities who requires around-the-clock monitoring, medications on time, careful observation of health trends, protection from seizure triggers and an extraordinary degree of awareness for dangers most people would never think to anticipate.
Some days his care runs relatively quietly in the background.
Other days caregiving comes charging out of the starting gate before I have located my first coherent thought.
When you care for someone with significant intellectual disabilities, you learn to look at ordinary life differently.
Twenty degrees below zero?
Apparently perfect tank-top, shorts and flip-flop weather.
Something sitting near the toothpaste?
Obviously toothpaste.
Except it is hydrocortisone cream.
Thirsty?
Olive oil looks refreshing.
Getting out of the car?
Why wait for Mom when traffic exists?
You stop simply asking:
What is he doing?
You learn to ask:
What could possibly happen next that no reasonable human being would ever think to anticipate?
And then you try to anticipate it.
That is one of my heavier buckets.
It is also non-negotiable.
While we are discussing my son, there is another responsibility apparently falling under my jurisdiction.
Food.
Somewhere along the way, I became proprietor of a 365-day-a-year family cafeteria.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snacks. At least two of those.
Every. Single. Day.
And my son has taken a particular interest in keeping cafeteria management accountable.
I can be cleaning, writing, monitoring medications, chasing a skunk or wrestling with publishing software when somewhere in the house I hear:
“Mom?”
I already know.
“Yes?”
“Have you thought about what’s for dinner?”
Son. It is 10:43 in the morning. I am still emotionally involved with breakfast.
Twenty minutes later:
“Mom, do you know what we’re having for dinner?”
Not even two hours later:
“Have you decided about dinner yet?”
There are days when I want to announce that the cafeteria has closed indefinitely, management has gone AWOL and anyone requiring nourishment should begin foraging.
Of course, I don’t.
Feeding the people I love is one of those ordinary acts of care woven through my days.
But I would dearly appreciate everyone allowing one meal to digest before negotiations begin for the next one.
We now find ourselves at our indoor zoo.
Two miniature dachshunds.
Two skunks.
One Maine Coon lioness who has somehow been appointed Queen of the Household and requires treats whenever atmospheric conditions change.
Wind shifts?
Treat.
Refrigerator opens?
Treat.
Human makes eye contact?
Clearly a treat-related event.
One of my little hotdogs is also enormously pregnant and approximately ten days away from puppies, which has understandably elevated her from Household Pet to Sacred Vessel Who Must Be Pampered At All Times.
Fair enough.
Then there is the baby skunk. There are not enough words. She is essentially a Tasmanian devil wearing formal black-and-white attire. She fears nothing, respects very little, and believes every cabinet, pantry, closet, crack, crevice and sliver of darkness exists specifically for her personal enrichment.
Give her ten unattended minutes and she can dismantle half a kitchen and locate a household hazard nobody else knew existed. Combine that with my son, who may open the freezer for ice and unknowingly shut the baby skunk inside, or open the pantry and accidentally lock her in with an entire buffet of absolutely not, and “remaining alert” becomes something of a lifestyle.
We also own six chickens.
Lovely girls. Charming personalities. Approximately four months old and currently contributing absolutely nothing to the household economy. We are anxiously awaiting our first eggs. The chickens appear considerably less concerned.
I am currently teaching them that roosts are for sleeping and nesting boxes are for the eggs we hope will soon arrive. That means blocking the nesting boxes at night so six birds do not spend eight hours sleeping and pooping inside the very place I expect my breakfast to eventually appear.
I have standards.
I refuse to have poop-covered eggs.
Last night, those standards resulted in me standing outside after dark in muck boots and a bathrobe chasing chickens around their run.
But allow me to back up.
Immediately before the Great Bathrobe Poultry Roundup, my husband and I had been winterizing our swimming pool. Written on paper, it sounds civilized enough. Stretch tarp across pool. Position giant inflatable pillows underneath so the center remains elevated. Secure ropes. Tie everything down. Finished.
Except eventually the tarp, ropes, pillows and laws of physics reached an impasse. Somebody had to get into the pool. Wishing to spare my already fatigued husband… I made sure that somebody was me.
So shortly before dark, I found myself neck-deep in approximately seventy-degree water, wrestling an enormous tarp through multiple rope systems while my husband and I tried to secure the whole contraption to the pool frame.
At some point, I looked toward Heaven. Not necessarily in prayer. More in the general direction of: Lord, are You observing my life choices?
Eventually: Pool secured. Tina indoors. Hot shower. Warm clothes. Clean.
Then I looked outside. Dark. Oh, for crying out loud. The chickens.
So I threw on muck boots and a bathrobe and headed outside to close everyone safely into the coop and turn on their electric fencing.
I slid open the run door expecting six responsibly roosted chickens. Instead, I saw shadowy figures perched on top of the coop. Not inside. On top. Because why would anyone make this easy?
While I was installing the nesting-box blockers, two chickens flew out the back. Two others bailed through the front. My motion-activated solar light—which exists precisely for situations like this—apparently decided it had clocked out for the evening. Now I was standing outside in the dark, in muck boots and a bathrobe, locating invisible poultry by following occasional chirps and clucks.
Eventually, through what I can only describe as advanced poultry choreography, I got everybody back inside. Victory. Until I discovered they had knocked one of the nesting blockers loose.
So I went around again, opened the rear door, reached inside to fix it — and I’ll be slapped sideways if two chickens didn’t fly out again. At that exact moment, my internal check-engine light illuminated and I became reasonably certain my warranty had expired.
Eventually everyone was accounted for. I came indoors, pulled off my muck boots, looked down at my bathrobe and felt like I needed another shower.
This is the glamorous life, people.
Inside the house waits another civilization of responsibility.
Thirty-four hundred square feet. Five bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Three Living rooms. Two kitchens. Three refrigerators. Beds needing stripped. Linens needing washed.
Two levels of carpets begging for steam cleaning. Wood and tile floors asking to be swept and mopped. Ceiling fans currently supporting enough dust to qualify for their own ecosystems.
Not to mention a swim spa needing scrubbed, and the flowerbeds surrounding our property that I have lovingly pretended not to see for several months. I realize these are outdoor chores, but as you can see I am overwhelmed and lost my train of thought here.
Have I mentioned the laundry?
Laundry possesses the unparalleled ability to reproduce when nobody is watching. You finish three loads. You walk away. You return fourteen minutes later and somehow there are now seven.
I do not understand the biology.
Someone should definitely study this.
If you’ve hung in with me this far then this brings us to ‘deez nuts’.
Let me specify hickory nuts before the internet gets entirely the wrong idea about the kind of blog I am writing.
Our neighbor has several hickory trees.
We have red squirrels, and these are not leisurely little squirrels sitting politely on a fence nibbling an acorn.
No.
These red squirrels are the tigresses of the squirrel world. They are vigilant, aggressive, relentless, industrious beyond reason — and apparently operate a regional winter-storage distribution center from our property.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Nut.
Hole.
Nut.
Flowerpot.
Nut.
Flowerbed.
I plant a flower.
They dig it up.
They bury a hickory nut.
I replant the flower.
They return.
Flower out.
Nut in.
Somewhere around the fiftieth replanting, it begins to feel personal.
They stuff hickory nuts into all of our seating cushions, the riding mowers grass bagger, even our exterior light figures. They chewed into our shed and stocked it. My husband opened one of his tool cases once. Nuts. We had a Chrysler Pacifica sitting unused for several months. We opened the hood. The engine compartment was packed with hickory nuts.
Packed.
I walk across my own yard and nearly twist an ankle because one of those insufferable little ankle-assassins is waiting underfoot. God help me if I’m barefoot. They crash onto the roof hard enough to make me jump and think somebody is at the door. My nervous system:
WHAT WAS THAT?
My rational brain, three seconds later: Hickory nut! Wonderful.
The most offensive part? They aren’t even our hickory nuts. They belong to the neighbor’s trees. At this point, I have found them in so many absurd places that I honestly would not be shocked if I bent over and one fell out my derierre. That is how thoroughly these insufferable hickory nuts have infiltrated my life.
Apparently, even the nuts have found their way into my buckets.
Now, I apparently surveyed this perfectly manageable existence and thought: You know what would simplify things?
If I started publishing books.
So now I write, maintain a blog, develop manuscripts, edit, format, learn illustration programs and navigate publishing platforms despite never having taken one computer class.
- Trim sizes.
- Bleed.
- Fonts.
- Typesetting.
- Uploads.
- Previews.
Enough technological hellery to make me contemplate poking myself in the eye with a pickle fork.
After examining a children’s book approximately seventeen thousand times, I publish it. Victory. Trumpets. Hallelujah. Then approximately twelve seconds later, I discover the infant in one illustration has six toes…or two pages suddenly show up in completely different fonts, as though they were not invited to the same book.
So I race to unpublish something I just fought tooth and nail to publish, correct everything, upload it again and pray I have not accidentally created a seventh toe during the repair.
Somewhere in this same season, our septic system decided it needed a storyline of its own. It backed up through the downstairs drains and flooded part of our basement living room, bedroom and utility space.
So, on top of everything already waiting for attention, an entire downstairs living area suddenly required cleanup, disinfecting, sanitizing and drying after exposure to backed-up sewage.
Because apparently what the existing list lacked was sewage remediation.
That is the thing about a very full life.
Responsibilities rarely arrive in tidy little compartments and politely wait their turn. They overlap. They collide. They sprout collateral responsibilities of their own.
While I am caring for my son and managing everything at home, I also help my daughters with childcare. One of my grand-angels is blind, autistic and is frequently my little ride-or-die companion. We understand each other beautifully much of the time. But sweet baby Jesus, Mother Mary and Joseph, when sensory overload hits and her stimming escalates, every living creature in the immediate vicinity becomes aware that weather conditions have changed.
Those moments can become intense quickly. Nana’s emergency procedure becomes something like: Protect the child. Protect the environment. Protect yourself — and possibly assume the fetal position somewhere nearby until the storm system passes.
She is precious. She is extraordinary. She is deeply loved. But when her nervous system becomes overwhelmed, she can bring enough intensity into a room to make Nana briefly reconsider the structural integrity of the building.
Another grand-dumpling vying for Nanas care is one year old, and lives about an hour away. Helping with childcare there means staying several days. This requires strategic planning around my son’s needs and the entire indoor-outdoor zoo at home.
My husband and I also regularly help our elderly widowed neighbor and her adult son with disabilities. Shortly before our own basement flooded, hers flooded several inches deep from extreme rain. We shifted priorities to head over there and spent the entire day shop-vacuuming.
Sometimes life looks at your already full hands and says: Excellent. You still have one elbow free.
And honestly? I am glad we can help. That matters too.
Somewhere amid all this, I also quit smoking.
Excellent timing. EXCELLENT.
Because stress has historically been one of those moments when my brain might cheerfully suggest: You know what would help right now?
NO! We are not doing that anymore…and so, because my body apparently felt underrepresented in the proceedings, several months ago my jaw decided opening properly was optional and popped out of socket. HELLO!
Eating comfortably has become nonnegotiable at this point, and eating a smashed grilled cheese sandwich is no longer appealing. Don’t even get me started on trying to sleep through the pain. Just take a moment to pray for my husband.
I finally broke and made an appointment to be seen, made it onto base for a medical appointment hoping to address it, only to find myself with yet another new physician. Military-base medicine has its own rhythm. Doctors deploy. Doctors transfer. New doctors arrive.
So my ‘ten minute, or two subject matters – whichever comes first’ allowable appointment – quickly disappeared while another physician got familiar and reconstructed my history. By the time we reached the jaw I actually came in to discuss, the appointment clock had essentially said: That’s fascinating. Let’s revisit it in three months.
This is usually where somebody kindly suggests: “You need to rest.”
Rest.
Interesting concept. I believe I have heard of it. As best I can determine, rest is a rumored condition in which a human being is not actively caregiving, cooking, cleaning, writing, publishing, chasing poultry, retrieving skunks, winterizing pools, monitoring medical concerns, scrubbing sewage, dodging hickory nuts or trying to remember what she forgot to do ten minutes ago.
Around here, rest often means sitting still long enough for every animal in the house to notice that I have become stationary.
Two dachshunds and a tiny skunk immediately climb into my lap. The cat materializes beside me demanding treats. Apparently motionlessness is interpreted as open office hours.
I will tell you that somewhere inside all this chaos, perspective has been changing. I am going to be sixty years old in about three weeks. Sixty. I still have no idea how that happened.
Zero to twenty seemed reasonably paced. Somewhere between twenty and fifty, life apparently put Mario Andretti behind the wheel. Fifty to sixty? I blinked. Seriously, what happened?
The woman inside my head still wanders around somewhere between her thirties and forties. She sees a giant pool tarp and says: We can do that.
My body stands several feet behind her screaming: ABSOLUTELY NOT.
My mind says: I’ll climb over there.
My body says: We have 60 year old knees now, ma’am.
Still, I do not resent getting older. There is revelry in it. I get to be here. More mornings with my husband. More years watching my children. More grandchildren. More laughter. More stories. More books. Apparently more animals. God help us…and maybe nearly sixty years of living have taught me something about all these buckets.
Some are heavy. Some are inconvenient. Some are ridiculous, and some contain responsibilities I cannot put down simply because I am tired.
My son’s safety cannot wait. His medications cannot wait. The living creatures depending upon me cannot indefinitely wait. Those buckets sometimes require both hands.
So the ceiling fans may stay dusty. The flowerbeds may remain embarrassing. The manuscript can wait. The laundry can continue whatever unauthorized breeding program it has established behind my back.
That is not failure.
That is discernment.
The bigger lesson has become something else entirely.
It was never really about the buckets.
Everybody has them.
My husband carries his. My children carry theirs. My grandchildren are beginning to encounter their own. Our elderly widowed neighbor carries buckets that sometimes become too heavy, and when we can, we take a handle. Someone I pass today may be carrying grief, illness, financial fear, loneliness, a sick spouse, an aging parent, a struggling child or something I will never know anything about.
None of us gets through life bucket-free.
So the question is not whose are heavier. It is: Who am I while I carry mine?
I have not always carried them particularly well. I have met plenty of circumstances overwhelmed, irritated and frustrated, staring so hard at the weight that I completely missed the blessing, opportunity or humor tucked inside.
Experience has taught me that I like myself—and my life—much better when I meet what comes with a wider perspective, grace, gratitude and, whenever possible, laughter.
While I cannot always choose what lands in my hands, I can keep choosing who I am while I carry it. Because I do not want to simply react my way through my own life. I want to live my life—not let my life live me.
That does not mean pain does not hurt. It does not mean exhaustion is imaginary. It certainly does not mean backed-up pipes become delightful or that I should achieve spiritual enlightenment while chasing chickens through the darkness in a bathrobe and nearly rolling an ankle on another insufferable hickory nut.
Some things are simply aggravating. But this is still my life happening. Not some inconvenient stretch I have to survive before my “real life” begins.
This is the real life.
My husband beside me wrestling pool tarps. My son asking for the twentieth time whether I have considered dinner. Grandbabies climbing into my world for Nana time. Dogs in my lap. A cat demanding treats. Runaway chickens. A skunk investigating something she absolutely should not. A manuscript open on my computer while dodging twenty paws. Laundry multiplying somewhere in the distance. Worry. Laughter. Love. Answered prayers, and approximately four thousand unsolicited hickory nuts. All of it.
So when I stop staring only at the weight, and look inside some of those buckets, perspective shifts.
The son requiring extraordinary care? My son.
The grandchildren needing Nana? My heart-yummy babies.
The animals forever requiring something? Creatures I adore.
The house demanding attention? Our oasis, our home.
The manuscripts making me half crazy? Stories I once only dreamed of writing.
The publishing glitches? They exist because, three weeks shy of sixty, I am publishing books.
Well. Would you look at that. Perspective has a funny way of changing the weight without changing the bucket.
…And someday, those buckets will leave my hands.
If I were dead and in the ground tomorrow, somebody else would eventually have to pick up many of the things I am carrying today.
That thought does not make me insignificant. It makes today significant. Because the buckets were never the point. The carrier is.
- How present am I?
- How do I love?
- Can I laugh when life becomes ridiculous?
- Can I notice what is good while carrying what is hard?
- Can I help steady somebody else’s load when I have a free hand?
- And when I handle one moment poorly, can I give myself enough grace to meet the next one better?
That is the woman I want to keep working on. Because every day is a diamond in the rough. Some days contain a truly impressive amount of rough. But there is still something precious inside.
Someone to love. Something to give. Something to notice. Something to laugh about. Something worth remaining present for.
So perhaps the question I want to carry into my mornings is not: What does today have to offer me?
Maybe it is: What do I have to offer within the gift of today?
I woke up.
There it is.
The blessing underneath everything else.
I am here.
And when my tired body says:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
I hear her.
Some things really can wait. But the things that truly cannot? I put my feet on the floor. Not because I am endlessly strong. Not because I never complain. Not because I always get it right. But because today matters. The people inside it matter.
And while I cannot control everything that comes at me, I can keep choosing how I meet it.
Present.
Truthful.
Grateful.
With humor whenever possible.
With grace when it is not.
So I rise.
Even if I have to step over the laundry, dodge delinquent chickens, retrieve a skunk, answer another inquiry regarding dinner, correct a six-toed infant and navigate four thousand unsolicited hickory nuts to do it.
Still I rise.
Whatever today places in your hands, may you find grace in carrying it, joy along the way, and blessings in the moments between.
With love and light,
Tina N. Campbell
Scribed in Light
“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”
— Charles R. Swindoll
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4 (KJV)
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