As (un)relaxeddad predicted, the next lines in the poem go something like this:
In the practice of the Tao,
every day something is dropped.
This is where I feel I have arrived as a mother. After all those years acquiring knowledge about mothering, developing my own personal philosophy about mothering, dreaming up so many ideas about mothering, uh, I look back on it and think it is possible that very little, if any of it, was necessary.
When I stare back down the years, I think most of that busywork was my way of coping with the impossibility of knowing whether my boys would be all right. I accumulated knowledge, like so many layers of clothing, to protect myself against the not-knowing.
I’m dropping my theories, one by one. It seems I am paring my mothering back to the pure white bone of it.
At least on the days when I am not too anxious.
Here is what a house looks like when it is as simple as can be. I wonder what a mother-child relationship looks like when it is as simple as can be?