This poem is full of discouragement. This season, in many of our lives, has been very discouraging.
Our lives have been full of COVID worries for over a year. And only now do we have the chance to survey the wreckage.
So much time on High Alert has burnt everyone out, I suspect. Not just me.
When I speak of disgust, many parents of small and larger children will understand on a more visceral level, what I’m talking about. This poem describes the moments, when the job–or whatever it is, that’s wearing you down– just seems too big. When the messes made, or the chaos around you, exceed your energy to keep up with them. There seems no end in sight.
I remember reading something interesting, back when the country first started to show signs of our current political polarization. Studies had shown, that the Republican temperament (assuming there is such a thing) had a more highly-developed sense of disgust, than the Democratic temperament. Now, this is not to say that all Democrats are slobs. Or that all Republicans are repelled, by mere nothings.
But I had noticed, after twenty-odd years of motherhood (and being a Democrat) that very little turns my stomach. I thought I might be immune to disgust.
Well, suffice it to say, I’m not. But I have learned to not let disgust rule or ruin my life.
Whether you are disgusted with the world, your children, housecleaning, the food on your plate, or those awful people of the opposite political persuasion: I hope this poem will ring true. Because sometimes, the road to where you want to go is paved, not with gold, but with something far less appetizing.
So stick with it. Learn to overlook what irritates you. Even if your disgust seems “perennial.”
The nice thing about perennials is this: they last. Through more than just one miserable season.
To the point that I don’t care:
Bathrooms full of must,
And crusts, and dusty everywhere.
Not as if you cared. Or knew
The things I long and lust for,
Like a holiday, or two.
And not the least, with me.
When all is done and dusted,
Our tomorrows look so bleak.
Perennially disgusted, yet,
Endure we must, for through disgust
Lies the road from here to there.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For a more cheerful look at the beginnings of family life, read Not So Long Ago.