I got up at 7:30 this morning to make scones before work. I’m meeting some of my boyfriend's family for the first time, and yes, I wanted to bring them something nice. At the same time, I got distracted, and the scones suffered. I had to throw them out. I can’t bring them now. I think his sister’s a pastry chef, and that would just be blasphemous.

A good dough

The scone dough was perfect. Fluffy and slightly sweet. I folded in the butter perfectly, like a pastry dough. I was so proud when I put those things in the oven. I had the exact amount of all the ingredients I needed. And I followed the instructions to a T, which I notoriously don’t do. I’m one of those cooks who likes cooking over baking because you can get away with sort of just winging it, and I do, and it usually comes out okay. I like doing that in the kitchen too. You just make stuff up, and if you’re in the general vicinity, you’ll probably be pretty good. I’ve made some dame fine kitchen sink cookies that way.

I set my timer for the scones, and they baked until the timer rang. But I took a look at them and thought they needed a little extra time. This is where I went wrong. This is where I went straight for the computer to fill in the time. Because I didn’t reset my timer, all of a sudden, another 15 minutes had passed (they only needed 15 in total), and I sprang up to see the scones now crispy like fried chicken.

I understand the movies where the woman is hysterical over burning a pie. I get it. That was me this morning. You put all this love and time and attention and resources, and then it’s failed. You can’t feed your family. WHAT AM I GOOD FOR IF I CAN'T BAKE! Someone should study the connection between self-worth and baking.

BUT, I’m lucky I’m stubborn because I’m just making the scones again. Thankfully, I can do the dough perfectly, and then I just have to be diligent with the time in the oven. No more, no less.

You can’t have it all

I feel like I’m in the feminist twighlight zone. I very literally can’t answer emails and bake scones at the same time, or that’s at least what happened this morning. Pay attention to one, and you’ll probably do that one well. Pay attention to both, or attempt to, and one will burn.

It reminds me of how they (the proverbial they) told women, women older than me, that we could have it all. And I think, and I know, I’m seeing and I’m a part of the generation that has to reckon with the fact that we can’t. That you can’t have it all as a woman. You can’t have a clear email inbox and scones cooked to perfection. It’s funny, but it’s a larger metaphor. One of those will suffer.

And who I believe has suffered, over the course of the last 100 years of the industrial revolution, plus both parents out of the home, plus world wars, plus women not prioritizing family, is children. Children have suffered. And what I mean is not that they didn’t have food or clothes, but that they didn’t have parents. They didn’t have an upbringing. Safety. Love. We look around today at suicide rates through the roof, mental health disorders a norm, everyone on some kind of medication, and wonder how that was possible.

In my opinion, guess what. There is someone to blame. It’s the parents. You left the home after 3 weeks of breastfeeding and thought that was enough. You had both parents out of the home 10 hours a day and thought, no worries. You instead let the government, through public school education, day care, after-school care, sports leagues, and the like, raise your kids instead. When you can’t get along with them and don’t know why, well, you weren’t around.

It’s a hill I will die on. We can’t have mothers out of the home and expect the home to just work. To just magically take care of itself or be a place that is warm, nourishing, nurturing, safe, and beautiful, if we don’t have the keepers of those things in the home.

It’s something I’m finding a lot of women are coming to the realization of. We simply don’t have the time, energy, or skills to do it all. And that doesn’t mean find a way. 

I think that really means: we have to ask ourselves, what do we value, and build our lives around that thing. And when we don’t have that clear, we’ll stay confused. Or, we’ll be delusional about why the scones are burned and unsure about whose fault it actually is. Hint: it’s not the government’s or parental leave.

Becuase when we ask ourselves what do we really value, we put the idol clearly, front and center, in our lives. We build the altar with what we hold most sacred. And, listen, if you’re a woman who says, I value my career deeply, then go right ahead. That altar will be filled with money and suits, and pictures of you in a suit, and maybe some trophies.

But don’t be delusional about thinking your altar has other things on it. If you give most of your time to that thing, that is your altar, whether you built it or not.

Your life is the altar of your soul. You build it with your time and attention, so what’s on yours?

Life is the altar of your soul

We’re always all making offerings of our hours, our energy, our care, to something. Some of us to our inboxes. Some of us to employers that don’t deserve our life force. Some of us to the endless striving for success that never quite fills the hollow inside. And some of us, still, to the home. To the slow, quiet work of nurturing something that might outlast us.

In this life, every task you do, every hour you spend, every bit of yourself you give away. You are here as a candle lit. The question is what you’re lit for. Your life is the altar of your soul.

So when you find yourself wondering why the scones burned, or why everything feels like too much, or why something in you is tired no matter how much you achieve, ask yourself: what am I worshipping here? What is my light being lit for? What sits on the altar of my life?

Because you can’t have it all.

You can only have what is good through what you honor with your time and your attention; with your dedication and devotion.

So, maybe ask yourself today, where in my life are the scones burning because I had my attention somewhere else?

Love,
Val

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