full of greatness.
I have finally had my falling down on the bathroom floor, cheek on the cold tile, fists clenched, begging some god, somewhere inside or out to please tell me what to do (you know, just like the woman did, the one who wrote the book I should have written?)
It was not over my marriage, though.
It was about my kid.
And I am about at the moment where I am not sure where or how I can summon the energy to get through this day, this week, this fourth year of her life. I am mad, hurt, exhausted and abused. Today I don’t like being a mom; don’t want to be a mom; wish I never made the choice to do so. There. I said it. And so, saying that, I will write. I have no choice but to write about what makes me full of greatness, what makes me alive. I won’t write all the reasons I want to strangle my daughter, because all of them would be born from a source of morbid illusion and a place where my ‘story’ has gotten stuck, skipping, repeating the same bad habits and patterns. I choose to change the theme of today, release the tension and believe in what I know to be true. Then I can step back into my role, like I slip into a bath; softly, smoothly, clearly ready to feel it’s beauty and peace and yet prepared for that occasionally scorch of hot water on the delicate skin of humanness.
Soft moss. For just walking on it across my front yard to gather sticks from the fallen tree to use for kindling later on. I am grateful I got married, barefoot on a field of soft green moss.
The buzz of a dragonfly, when they wiz by my head, reminding me I am the keeper of my own time.
Slow roasted potatoes sprinkled with fresh sage and rosemary, salt and pepper.
Sounds that never fail to heal me: ferocious winds, high tides beating against rocks, fire crackling, Mia singing songs she makes from the heart, My girl dog licking away at her paw, crows and owls sounding, the beat of drum skins under my husband’s hand, the meowing of a newborn baby, the sound of the last load of clothes spinning in the dryer. Krishna Das chanting. Big Youth deejaying. The flipping pages of my journal when I am writing in a stream.
My circle of women: writers, healers, sisters.
The Three Grandmothers who, in spirit, always hover above me, come to me when I call upon them, guide me thorugh the mother labirynth.
The harder our kids are to raise, the closer my man and I become; our golden chain becomes tighter and stronger; our partnership transcends rules and we walk, merged and melted, trying to just live this parenting thing with grace. When we blunder and trip and fall flat on our faces, which happens often, I am grateful for the outstretched hand, the pull back on up.
Nettles, Red Raspberry, Yarrow, Peppermint, and Oat Straw, just to name a few. Each day that I commit to taking these green allies, I reaffirm my body wisdom. I choose health. The same goes for apple cider vinegar. It has been such a friend to me this pregnancy, this time of slow healing.
My deck of intuitive tarot cards.
This ripe and gentle pregnancy, this little person who makes my belly bump with an authority and sensuality I cannot recognize as myself, though I am know I must possess. I walk with an empress empowerment, I feel like Queen, large and round and taking up empty space with a slinky knowingness. Everywhere I sit feels like a thrown. I am so grateful I get to love another person in that way only a mother can. I am so grateful that in less than two months, I get to cuddle with my dove. My dove, I thank you.
Zappos.com. I am so pleased with my two new pair of boots; one black and furry, one wine colored and sexy. Just in time for the first sprinkle of snow.
Light snows.
Lattes.
Beet Juice.
My mother.
Black nail polish.
Hilly neighborhoods.
The one who seems to bring me to these places of despair, the daughter that led me to this once blank page.. Through that despair I have no other choice but to reach my arms and heart out, stretching for the other side of my story. I can’t live on a heap on the bathroom floor. I can’t take off and travel, sewing my seed of creativity into a global coat, but I can sit and remember what is full and great in my life. And it’s her, the one I wanted to strangle. Her idiosyncrasies and iron like will, whose behavior can sometimes be compared to big blood sucking gnats that create boils on the skin; she’s the one who guides me to this place. This place where my story is gratitude. For her, her rosy glowing skin against the silver of snow, I give thanks.
