Today I empowered my 10 year old brother to make pie. I’d taught him to make pie dough the night before, and now coached him through rolling it out. We pre-baked 4 shells for chocolate cream pie, leaving 1 crusts worth and a pile of scraps leftover. He got it into his head he wanted to make pumpkin pie, and proceeded to do so, with only occasional questions. He was as pleased as punch.
I love that part of being home. I love lots of the parts of being home, actually. Every chance I get, I snatch at things I really didn’t want to give up, whether it be teaching little people to cook, or getting my hands in the dirt gardening, or any number of things. Sometimes the urge to sew comes on so strong it (almost) hurts. Some days, I just want to chuck all the boring book-work, and do something with my hands.
This always causes certain people to ask, “Then why did you want to do something different? Why are you going to college?”
Because I had to.
Protestations abound. Everyone was glad to have you home; you had the perfect set-up.
The problem was that my own soul testified that I wasn’t where I should be and wasn’t doing what I should be doing. It doesn’t matter how much you enjoy where you are or what you’re doing, or what anyone else says. That knowledge in your deepest part will rapidly suck whatever enjoyment you found in it out of you, constricting you tighter and tighter until you can think of almost nothing else but.
I don’t drag myself out of bed at 6 o’clock the morning because college is the grandest thing, or that the people there are the most wonderful, or that I get some particular enjoyment out of waking at such a squinty-eyed hour. Rather, I’m doing it because now I once again know that I am where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing. That’s peace.
And I’d get up at 1:30 every morning for it.