When I was working on my MFA at Antioch, I attended a seminar with the profound Peter Levitt about writing & meditation.  It was sort of my introduction to meditation and Zen practice.  One of the main things that stayed with me from that seminar was when Peter talked about applying the principles of meditative practice to his writing and to his life.  When you meditate, you are supposed to focus on your breathing, allow your thoughts to come and go and try not to get tangled in them.  You are supposed to do your best to just be in the practice, to just be with your life at that moment without trying to control or manipulate. He said that is the way he tries to write — to give the writing his full attention in the moments of writing, to be with the writing without fretting about whatever else starts rambling through his brain, and to not try to make the writing into something that he thinks it should be.

At least that’s how I remember it.  And I have tried since then to apply that general practice throughout my life.  Now, I was raised Catholic, so I’m way better at guilt than I am at being.  Unfortunately, I don’t practice meditation as often as I would like to. And I struggle to just be with my writing — and not get caught up in the conversations going on around me or chide myself for not writing more or constantly self-censor because everything I write is just crap.  But I’ve found the practice comes easiest, and seems to have the greatest impact on my mood, when I’m doing droll domestic tasks:  washing the dishes, vacuuming, making baby food, cleaning the poop out of cloth diapers.  There is something very peaceful about just doing what I have to do — getting lost in the soap suds and flowing water, taking satisfaction in the imperfection of a homemade puree.

There are those that would consider this some sort of concession — a betrayal of my feminist foremothers — a denial of my intellectual, professional, and personal capacities.  In the days of Betty Friedan & the Feminine Mystique (which I have not yet read, but have read alot of reference to lately), housework was considered the shackles that contained a woman in her domestic prison.   I even read an article in the Atlantic recently claiming that breastfeeding is the new vacuum:  the unreasonable demands of feeding your baby without bottle or formula are now chaining women to the home and denying them equality.  I’m not gonna go there now, except to say that if you don’t want to breastfeed or vacuum, don’t.  There are very satisfactory options that free women from those domestic tasks they find most onerous or entrapping.

I will say, however, that I see a connection between breastfeeding & housecleaning — I just see it differently.  When I breastfeed my son (usually) I am very content with the fact that’s where I am at the moment, that’s where I have to be, and there’s no rushing it.  The boy needs to eat.  If I don’t watch the clock, that time spent breastfeeding is often when I can just think, reflect, maybe plan or dream.  I also get to cuddle & snuggle my son, which is otherwise rare since he’s a super energetic boy.  Other than the cuddling part, I feel the same way about housework.  Often, doing dishes or vacuuming is one of the few times I have to just zone out and be with my own thoughts, without my son or husband, just on my own.  I can listen to a favorite CD or radio program, start dreaming up lines to a new poem, or not really think about anything at all.  That’s not to say there aren’t days when I begrudge my domestic duties, but in general that time is valuable in so many ways.  Maybe that makes me less of a feminist.  But getting into that mindset also makes me more peaceful and content, so I’m okay with it.