by Rachel Creager Ireland
I’m supposed to be finishing the Costa Rica journal, but instead I’m writing poetry. Some days are just like that.
Some days feel heavily burdened by
a miasma of inertia. The work refuses
to get done, the kids whine and refuse too.
Some days nothing works, no effort bears
fruit everything is a futile struggle, and the only
thing to do is to recognize
the hopelessness of it all and quit. Give in
to your children’s demands to go to the pool,
get there fifteen minutes before closing,
be in the water as long as you can,
until the whistle blows. Because—
remember this—on days when trying
doesn’t work, not trying doesn’t work
either, it’s just a little easier, a little more
likely to precede an inexplicable
moment of sublime grace when you
suddenly notice you love everything,
the dust on the wall, chigger bites,
the tomatoes you still haven’t planted
and the picnic you’re planning. Simple pleasures
like the swimming pool and the city band
that plays music in the park. Quit fighting,
and notice it’s a remarkably nice life you have.
Notice the way time passes and
every moment is slightly different
than the previous one, until it’s another season,
you’re middle aged now and it’s okay.
Accept that nothing works, and get in the water,
be in the water as long as you can, until
the whistle blows.