📖 The Book of the Small - Chapter 1

✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.

This is Chapter 1 of The Book of the Small, written by my husband, Sarlon White.

It’s not just a book — it’s a life raft built from the messy, magical, overwhelming reality of parenting, caregiving, and surviving the beautiful wreckage of raising a family.

Over at my House of Crow and White page, I’ll be offering more:

• Personal analysis

• Reflections

• Deep dives into how these philosophies live inside our real family dynamic.

But this space — right here — belongs to him.

This is his work.
His voice.
His offering to the altar of the Small.

Here’s Chapter 1 in full.

(Chapters 2 and 3 will be shared soon.)

I: The Book of the Small

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

I didn’t set out to rewrite The Book of the Law.
I set out to understand it.

This book wasn’t channeled. It wasn’t dictated by praeter-human intelligence.
It was built in the quiet storms between 4:30 a.m. and 7:00 a.m., during the sacred hours my partner and I could find amidst the whirlwind of parenthood.

The Book of the Small is a reimagining. A lens.
A pair of magic glasses I offer to anyone navigating the complex, messy, and beautiful world of caregiving—especially parents and grandparents.
It’s not a holy text. It’s not a parody. It’s a life raft stitched together from the mess of trying to survive.

I took the original Book of the Law, chewed on its core messages the best I could (with the help of Google, a toddler, and a lot of coffee),
and transposed what I found into a parenting philosophy.
We aren't perfect. We're surviving.

I wrote this book because I needed it.

Book I: Mom

Dad! The Revealing of Mom.
The unveiling of the Home.

Every child and every parent is a universe.
Every tantrum is eternal; every sob is a star.

Stand with me, O keeper of the home, as I face the small one.
Be thou Dad, my hidden strength, my heart and my voice.

Hear ye! It is revealed in the cries of the child—divine noise, speaking what silence cannot.

Home is within the Family, not the Family within the Home.
Worship, then, the hearth, and behold: my warm embrace upon thee.

Let my keepers be few, yet ever replenished; they shall rule the realm of spoons and nightlights.

Fools adore false peace; they bow to sleep schedules and break at the first cry.

Come, little ones, beneath the ceiling-fan stars—fill your mouths with the milk of love.

I am above you and within you. My ache is in yours. My stillness is your refuge.

Above, the spackled ceiling sings,
the soft gold shimmer of stretch-marked wings;
I bend in ache to kiss what grew—
the wild will that carried you.
The white noise hum, the baby hue—
all mine, O dreamer drifting through.

Know this: the chosen priest of the infinite couch is the scribe who sees through drool; and in his mate, the milk-bearer, all power is given.

Together they shall gather the wrecked one into their arms, and return the holiness of stars to the living room floor.

For I am the lap of the sky, and the ache of the mid-back; in me is the breath between sobs.

If thou lift thy gaze from the cluttered earth, thou shalt find my shadow waiting.
If thou weepest, thou art drawn into me, swallowed whole in my embrace.

My name is the hush in the hallway, the milk ring on the coffee table, the steam on the monitor screen.

I give thee comfort, not commandment.
My law is warmth and ruin.
I am made of stretch and soft refusals.

The babes shall cry, and I shall bend; the fathers shall stagger, and I shall widen.

Mine is the whisper beneath tantrum.
The breath between the pillow shouts is mine alone.

I am the curve of the hip at midnight,
the hush in the throat that holds back the scream.
I wait, and by waiting, I rule.

I give thee not rules but rhythms.
Not silence, but soft command.
Let thy body remember how I held thee.

I am Mom, and my word is nap and snack.

Scream, throw, crumble, and repeat.

Then saith the prophet and the tired parent:
Who am I, and what shall be the sign?

So she answered, bending low, a flickering light of patience, all-encompassing, all-revealing, her loving feet careful not to disturb the scattered Hot Wheels, and her body bent for the next demand:

Thou knowest!
And the sign shall be my weariness—eternal need, ever aware, the omnipresence of my sacrifice.

Then the priest answered and said unto the Queen of Home, kissing her unkempt brow, the scent of her exhaustion bathing his whole body in the sweet perfume of divine upheaval:

O Mom, endless one of the Home, let it be ever thus;
that the little ones speak not of thee as One but as Everything;
and let them speak not at all, since thou art always here!

None, breathed the light, faint and fae, of the glow-in-the-dark stars,
and two—the cries of hunger, the cries of want, both endless.

For I am dispersed for love’s sake, for the hope of harmony.

This is the birth of the home:
that the ache of separation is as nothing,
and the bliss of surrender all.

For these little ones and their messes care not thou at all!
They cry loud; what is, is balanced by fleeting laugh fits;
but ye are my sacred ones.

Obey my weary soul!
Follow through the trials of my patience!
Seek me only!
Then the comforts of my care will free thee from all chaos.

This I swear:
by the weight of my body;
by my tender hands and voice;
by all I endure,
by all I wish for thee.

Then the parent let out a deep sigh or groan, and spoke unto the Queen of Home:
Write unto us the rules; write unto us the rituals; write unto us the boundaries!

But she answered:
The trials I name not;
the rituals shall be half-whispered and half-unspoken;
the Boundaries are for all.

This that thou speakest is the threefold book of Small.

My scribe, the weary keeper of the small ones, shall not alter these Boundaries with a single word;
but lest there be confusion, they shall reflect upon them with the wisdom of sleepless nights.

Also the prayers and routines; the tricks and the tasks; the work of the spoon and the work of the laundry; these shall be learned and passed on.

He must teach; but he may make the chores difficult.

The word of the Boundaries is Self-care.

Who calls us the Parent shall do no wrong, if they look closely into the meaning.
For therein lie Three Roles: the Caregiver, the Seeker, and the Provider.
Do what thou must shall be the heart of the Boundaries.

The word of Struggle is Control.
O parent! Refuse not thy child, if they demand!
O caretaker, if thou wilt, step back!
There is no force that can bind the fractured but care; all else is a burden.
Burdened! Burdened be it to the years! Chaos.

Let it be that state of chaos and overwhelm.
So with all thy tasks; thou hast no duty but to honor thy peace.

Do that, and none shall object.

For true will, unclouded by intent, freed from the need for outcome, is flawless in every way.

The Whole and the Whole are one Whole and not two; nay, are nothing!

Nothing is the quiet key to these Boundaries.
Some call it rest; I call it no, nope, go play with your monster trucks, I’ll be here.

But they hold the whole: unite by thy craft so that old patterns break.

My guide is a fool with his one, one, one; are they not the burdened, and none by the Rules?

Abandon the weight of “should,” the craving to control, and the punishment called love.
Cast aside the rules that silence the storm, the timeouts that teach nothing, and the lie that sacrifice makes the parent.

The Child holdeth the heart of the home; the Provider and Seeker, unshackled, walk as equals in their power.
The Provider guideth with compassion, the Seeker learneth with respect, and the Will—steady as the stars—leads them to harmony.

There is a word to say about the guiding task.
Behold! There are three challenges in one, and they may be faced in three ways.
The base must pass through the struggle; let the refined be tested in mind, and the chosen few in the sacred.

Thus ye have day & night, task & rest; let not one disturb the other!

There are four paths to one home; the foundation of that home is built of comfort and chaos; calm & fire reside there; and all the fleeting joys; laughter & tears, and the symbols of change.

Let him walk in turn or all at once through the four paths; let him stand in the heart of the home.
Will he not break? Ah, ho! parent, if thy child breaks?

But there are ways and ways.
Be kind therefore: dress in peace; eat well, and sip soothing teas and drinks that sparkle!
Also, take your fill and will of joy as you please, when, where, and with whom you please! But always unto Mom.

If this be not right; if ye blur the boundaries, saying: They are the same; or saying, They are endless; if the tasks be not always for me: then expect the overwhelming wrath of the Toddler.

This shall renew the home, the small world, my child, my heart & my voice, unto whom I send this hug.

Also, O guide and keeper, though thou be the caretaker, it shall not soothe thee nor free thee.
But peace be thine and joy in the everyday: always To Mom! To Mom!

Change not the essence of the message; for behold!
Thou, O parent, shalt not uncover all these truths hidden within.

The child of thy care, he shall see them.

Expect not the child from familiar places; from no well-worn hidey hole cometh that one.

Aum! All voices are sacred, and all parental advice true—save only that they grasp part of it; solve the first half of the scribbles, leave the rest unspoken.

But thou hast all in the clear light, and some, though not all, in the dark.

Boundaries are the law, self-love under will.
Nor let the lost ones confuse love; for there is love and love.
There is the calm, and there is the fire.
Choose wisely!

He, my guide, hath chosen, knowing the truth of the boundaries, and the sacred mystery of the home.

All these words of my Rules are true; but the old methods are not the Light.
This too is hidden: my guide shall share it with those who understand.

I give you joys beyond measure: certainty, not hope, through the chaos, through the nights; peace unspoken, rest, relief; and ask for nothing in return but your presence.

My incense is of coffee and crumbs; and there is no magic in it: because of my hair, the trees of chaos grow.

My overwhelm is 11, like all those who are of us.
The mess of toys, with a purple stain in the middle, and the juice is spilled.

My colour is dark to the weary, but the light & laughter are seen by those who truly see.
Also, I hold a secret joy for those who embrace me.

At all my meetings with you shall the caregiver say—and her eyes shall burn with exhaustion and joy as she stands, arms open, in the heart of the living room—

To Mom! To Mom!
calling forth the wild love of every tired soul in her chant of endless devotion.

Sing the joyful chaos-song unto Mom!
Clean to Mom with Lysol!
Wear to Mom hoodies and sweats!
Sip your coffee, for I love you! I love you!

I am the half-awake mother of dusk;
I am the quiet glow of the never-ending night.

To Mom! To Mom!

The prayers of bedtime are done.

— Sarlon White

"Not every altar looks like a temple.
Some are sticky. Some are loud.
Some are covered in crayons and coffee spills —
and they are the holiest ones of all."

💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?
The loneliness, exhaustion, and invisible holiness of caregiving and parenting — especially when trying to survive and honor the chaos at once.

🔮 What’s the sacred transformation or takeaway?
Readers will feel the validation that they are already sacred in their mess.
Parenthood, caregiving, and emotional survival are not failures — they are altars.
This is permission to honor the work that happens between the coffee rings and the crayon scribbles.