… I would point to a body. I would open up my chest to show you my silent scars, and then I would point to the body that embodies my hatred. It eats more than it needs to at every meal. It doesn’t stop talking. It has been sick more than it has been well. It sucks the air out of the room. It makes constant simple and complex demands. It is perptually vying for the center stage and for the spotlight to be perfectly fixed on it’s form–on it’s pain.
I would point to the woman who birthed me. She gave me life, and then she tried to suck it away. My rage no longer ties me to her body. I cut the strings last Tuesday. I had every right to be angry and to hate. Every right. But I don’t want the tie to bind me any longer to her floppy, messy bosom that is always covered with a paper bib at mealtimes.
I am free to float higher into the stars of the night sky. I am free to be me. I. am. free. She lost me a long time ago. Now I officially release myself from the apron strings I clung to thinking surely we can heal. Surely she can be a mother to my inner little, blond, curly haired self. No. It is not meant to be because it can’t be. She can’t not be first and last–the Alpha and Omega of all conversations–of all things. So I rest my weary head. So I walk away with a slow and purposeful stride. I look up at the birds flying free and light in the blue sky. I let go of the heavy burden of wanting something someone can’t give me.
I have found a mother. She is me. I can rock away the sadness, the lostness, the loneliness, the pain, the isolation, the craziness. I rock it away into the night so with each creak of my wooden chair the sadness abates, and the little, blond, curly headed girl can breathe deeper. So her chest cracks open and all of the scary birds fly away, and I am left to gather lavender, rosemary, sage, words, prayers, silence, love, soft blankets, mugs of tea, and stacks of books to fill the empty place.
Now I am full of what is me. I have a softness inside of me. Now I have a place to land.
Photo credit: Jamesy Peña / Foter / CC BY