I gave birth to a star, and then to a supernova; I run back and forth between the two until my tongue hangs as long as the dog’s on his too-infrequent walks. No one told me it could be like this.
It’s not the supernova’s fault. That small being came big, more than ten pounds of him, into the lovely confines of the birthing center. It was a brilliant labor; we worked in synchronicity and through the pain there was bliss.
I have these two people, small and fragile but somehow enough to bring me to my knees. Then I still have to walk the dog. My partner is solid. I have a beautiful partner. I don’t let him help enough. It’s like that when you are a woman trapped in a warrior archetype there’s long been no room for.
There’s no room. I want to do it myself. I like to do it myself. I don’t like help. I don’t want help. I want companionship and freedom, simultaneously. That’s a good partnership. Symbiosis with clarity.
Sometimes I need help. That’s when I call, and I know who to call. That’s one thing we are good at here–helping. We have so many helpers.
There’s nothing wrong with me. Put a feral cat in a shoebox and watch. Maybe it’s the shoebox. The cat doesn’t want that box.
The dog is sleeping on the tile. We walked today. We’re too much alike, he and I. No time for the mundane. Want to go, go, go. Indomitable, strong willed, shaking our heads in insolence and the idea of a collar. No idea we’re running right into traffic. I think he’s a jerk and sometimes people think I am a jerk. Most of the time we get along. The dog. Me. People. Some people have never seen this side of me, but they’ve felt its quills right beneath the surface.
It’s hard soul searching when everyone needs to feel you feeling them. I’ve always worked to be polite. To be kind. To smile correctly for the camera. To do what is expected of me. I’m forty one and something has cracked. Maybe it’s that there’s no time for collars once you enter middle age.
This soul has been knocking, like the flicker who loves to hammer on the metal in our yard. I love that sound. I love that feeling–oh yes, there is something deeper, isn’t there? Thanks for the reminder. And to my children, “Oh do you hear the flicker? Let’s go see him calling for a friend.”
Everywhere around me it’s chaos. Boundary indiscretions, clutter. I’m a simple woman. My love language, if we must go there, and quantify and qualify these things–is quality time. I long for space and time and the quietude of confidence. Nature. I do not love things, unless they bolster my ability to get out into nature. Skis. My hiking shoes. The paddle board.
We are buried in a culture of things and most days I can’t breathe. It’s all a little dull and yet I can’t get from beneath it. I want less for my children, which feels like more. Pockets full of love. Pockets full of light. Luminous.
