What Work Is

A friend was doing architectural research in Romania and found that they used up every square meter. What they could not use for farming, they used for pasture. What they could not use for livestock or vegetables they used for fields of sunflowers. If a piece of land was not yielding food, it was a waste. This is how our summer has been.

Since late winter, when we got our acceptance letters from PMFS, I have spent many nights pinned to the bed as if by centrifugal force-- jaw locked, eyes open, and heart pounding, "How are we going to pay for this??" When Geoff's classes ended last semester, instead of down-shifting into a summer of beachy and relaxed ease, he taught camps at Penn and Princeton and worked for pharmeceutical companies doing story boards. I have taken on two sessions of childbirth classes, a doula client and weekly shifts at the kitchen store. If a moment this summer was not yielding income, then-- well, then it was not a waste per se. Anyhow, we have been working harder than we ever have in our adult lives making me simultaneously angry that I chose the majors I did and at the same time incredibly grateful that my parents allowed me to select the majors I did-- allowing me to remain sheltered from the bone-chilling fact that raising children is expensive.

This summer has exposed my love of comfort, my resistance to sacrifice, and frankly shaken me from my naive daze. I feel like I understand the cost of things a little better. It has allowed my entitled heart to yearn harder for heaven and hunger more acutely for spiritual food. When you are on your feet in a kitchen shop, hauling toaster ovens up and down stairs, enumerating the merits of Cuisinarts--you ache to sniff your baby's neck. Standing at the cash register, you would give anything to fly paper airplanes from the backyard deck with Manny, Benicio and Clara. These challenges are good, these strains are strength-building.