ode to mrs. ramsay

This morning I was standing in my bedroom in a bra and unzipped pair of pants, contemplating the work-appropriate sweater options before me in the open armoire, when Beatrice quietly stole into the room with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A forest elf in a brilliant green bean-colored cape. I turned and she burst out laughing, delighted because she had surprised me.
She began chattering to me about how she would like to pick out my outfit, and how she was disappointed that I was wearing pants and not a dress today. Then she asked if I would help her spread out her blanket in the center of the floor.
We shook it out, watched it billow onto the carpet and then smoothed it flat together. She happily plopped down in the center of it and looked up at me and said with great satisfaction: now I have a Mama-watching mat!
I smiled at her. She smiled back at me. And our chatty Beatrice leaned back on her hands and stretched out her legs in front of her, rolling them back and forth so that her toes kissed repeatedly, quietly smiling and watching me pull on faded socks and tie up my ankle boots. She watched me walk into the sunny bathroom and wash my face. She asked if she could pick out some jewelry for me to wear.
Yes, please. Whatever you think would look good.
I put all her selections on - all my fanciest things. I later took most of it off. But she loved watching me clasp the pearls and slide in the sparkling hair combs.

I've been rereading To The Lighthouse. A fleeting reference was all it took for me to go back, drawn in particular (as ever) by Mrs. Ramsay. I feel a new kinship with her. Something has changed since the last time I read the book, a few years ago.

I don't know that I've ever read anything that so fully inhabits and imagines the interior experience of creating cohesion and balance at home--building and sustaining a rich domestic life that feels deliciously natural for outsiders to partake in but is in fact the result of arduous moment-by-moment emotional work. Mrs. Ramsay is the center without which nothing holds. Her eight children, her husband, and even their many guests need her responsiveness, her attention, her quiet care. Everything about their summer house on the Isle of Skye--from the bulbs in the garden to the romances that bloom on the beach to the art and philosophy percolating on the lawn--depends upon  Mrs. Ramsay sitting in the window with her flashing knitting needles. They all look to her, at times desperately, to find their place in a world, in a family. She smiles; they are reassured.

They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions. 

Do they have any idea the effort that it causes her? Her youngest, James, seems to know.

The other night as I put Gabriel to bed he looked up at me searchingly.
Mama.
Yes?
Mama. Mama, Beatrice has been having so many tantrums. And Papa and Didi fight. And I just hide under a blanket and read. But you don't. You're always just...Mama.
I know.
But - you never get to be upset like the rest of us.

He was expressing worry about me, some recognition that the pressures on our family are so very great, and that it must be hard to always just be Mama and not run away or fight or scream. But I knew what he really wanted to know was that I would keep on being Mama, no matter what.

So I told him. I told him I love him and Frances and Beatrice and Papa, and I can hack it even when things are hard, and I won't stop just being Mama, ever.

(Even though sometimes I do want to hide and fight and scream. He's my fellow sponge. He kind of knows. But I think he was reassured anyway.)

Oh, how they watch me for signs of crumbling! And how intolerable it is for them when I read or talk to another adult or text or stare out the window, thinking. Be here for me, they each tell me in their own way. Be here for me, make me real, make my world safe and predictable, just be Mama.

It finally occurred to me this time, reading To The Lighthouse, that the entirety of Mrs. Ramsay's duties exist in this world of emotional and social creation. She is often knitting, which seems apt, as her emotional work is a kind of knitting together too: being kind to irritating people, reading fairy tales, including lost souls in the dinner conversation, making socks for the poor lighthouse keeper's boy. She doesn't do laundry or chop vegetables - she has the servants for that.

But the rest of us have to make dinner and make a family feel like a family. It's so hard sometimes. Children depend on us to never waiver - or at least to limit our waivering to predictable, minor fluctuations. Good luck with that.

Right now we five live with a throbbing, terrifying danger all around us (inside us, in Mike's case) that we find varied ways to cope with - forgetting, bravery, sadness, distraction, anger. It is a heavy burden for everyone, even as we are helped to carry it by many dear loved ones.

But always, always, I am aware of many searching eyes on me, depending on me to make waffles and jokes and valentines, to offer good morning hugs, to get irritated about piano practicing, to sing quietly at bedtime. To wear the fanciest jewelry. And even when my insides go hollow with the effort, with sadness--as with Mrs. Ramsay below--I pray I too can keep ladling the soup, and preserve the unity, safety and love of our shared family life.

But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs. Ramsay, taking her place at the head of the table, and looking at all the plates making white circles on it. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said, wearily, "over there." ... She had a sense of being past everything, through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup, as if there was an eddy--there--and one could be in it, or one could be out of it, and she was out of it. It's all come to an end, she thought, while they came in one after another ... 
Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy--that was what she was thinking, this was what she was doing--ladling out soup--she felt, more and more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade had fallen, and robbed of color, she saw things truly. The room (she looked round it) was very shabby. There was no beauty anywhere. ... Nothing seemed to have merged. They all sat separate. And the whole of the effort of merging and flowing and creating rested on her. Again she felt, as a fact without hostility, the sterility of men, for if she did not do it nobody would do it, and so, giving herself the little shake that one gives the watch that has stopped, the old familiar pulse began beating, as the watch begins ticking--one, two, three, one, two, three. And so on and so on, she repeated, listening to it, sheltering and fostering the still feeble pulse as one might guard a weak flame with a newspaper.

Fueled by that flicker, she then bends towards Mr. Bankes, to ask him if he has found his letters in the hall. It's a Herculean gesture. That's just the way life is sometimes. Those private moments of will, of shaking oneself out of despair and into generosity. Where would any of us be without these kind of heroic acts, performed quietly around dining tables everywhere, knitting us to ourselves and one another?