The Business of Living

It was nearly 7:30 pm when me and my squeaky, raisin and mitten infested van pulled into the nearly deserted Aldi parking lot Monday night. I had known grocery shopping was on the agenda for the evening, but I had exited the house quickly so as not to be late for a 5:00 dinner. Now, hours later, I was unsure if I had the necessary quarter for the cart and my reusable bags were most definitely at home. Within minutes I found myself wandering through the aisles like a rat in a maze, conjuring up the week's meals as I hastened along, picking up the items on my mental check-list. I felt a certain amount of disconnect as I smiled at the young man at the check out counter, thanking him for his gracious compliment of how nicely I lined up my purchases on the conveyor belt. Only thirty minutes earlier I had been seated in a cramped room next to my father, holding his hand, as he lay in a hospital bed, my mother, resolute in her new role as nurse, beside me. Together we attempted to coax a palate not desirous of food to take one more bite of what, I must admit, appeared to be unappetizing mashed potatoes, and a body suffering from dehydration to take one more drink of Ensure.

Last Sunday, as my family and I stood in church while visiting friends in Indiana, my father was hospitalized for the second time in less than three months, a mere three weeks since his release from a local rehab facility. While picking up groceries and tossing them in the cart, consumed with the mundane demands of ordinary living, I longed for a respite, a moment to pause and consider the pregnancy of the situation at hand. But life has a way, for good or ill, of undeniably thrusting itself forward. And despite my father's illness, I must submit to my present limitations, for there are four tiny tummies to be filled, bottoms to be wiped, clothes to be laundered, and tears to be soothed; my children need their mother.

In December 1969, Dorothy Day wrote a column titled, "The Business of Living," which advocated, according to Amanda W. Daloisio in the most recent publication of The Catholic Worker, that "the business of living was not an escape from the suffering of the world but a call to address it by doing the daily work of life with a deeper spirit of mindfulness." "What did the women do after the Crucifixion?" queried Day. "They prepared the spices, purchased the linen clothes for burial, kept the Sabbath, and hastened to the tomb on Sunday morning."  For, Day continues, "no matter what catastrophe has occurred or hangs overhead" a woman" has to go on with the business of living." 

After reading Jenny's post and realizing that we too owned John O'Donohue's Anam Cara, I soon discovered a lovely prayer for the hearth. This prayer, which I am offering for this week's Poetry Wednesday, has embedded itself within my morning prayers. Typically, I clutch at the book, not in a state of reverence, but amidst the chaos of our kitchen, a child straddled upon a hip while others clutch at my legs, a series of demands and grievances arising in cacophony while I whisper the words, pleading for help from the Irish saint Brigid and those women of my blood unknown to me, departed and separated from me by but a thin veil. "Keep me from harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness," I pray. Guide my hands throughout this ordinary day, reminding me to do all my work with love.

Caitlin Matthews

Brighid of the Mantle, encompass us.

Lady of the Lambs protect us,

Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us,

Beneath your mantle, gather us

And restore us to memory.

Mothers of our mother,

Fore mothers strong.

Guide our hands in yours,

Remind us how

To kindle the hearth.

To keep it bright,

To preserve the flame,

Your hands upon ours,

Our hands within yours,

To kindle the light,

Both day and night.

The mantle of Brighid about us,

The memory of Brighid within us,

The protection of Brighid keeping us

From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness,

This day and night,

From dawn till dark,

From dark till dawn.