my stomach turns and my womb quakes, stretching, becoming again a warm ocean bed. inside me is the beginning of the world, the moment where the wheels and cogs of existence started their organic whirring. the splitting in two of cells and the meeting of proteins, the spreading of plasma and tissue and the construction of an organism. and what to say of the change that happens in my heart? the falling in love so quickly with the unknown, the unseen, the only imagined. it is a feeling i could never have imagined nor can ever hope to describe accurately. i am a life force at the moment, even if i am a little weakened by it, my mood faltering, my belly queasy, my head sore. i am still the great mama, growing in a perfect symphony my perfect child, untouched by the outer world. it is such a miracle and i am ever grateful for whoever it is that has chosen me as its mother.
a sudden stillness. i am strangely and suddenly at ease with my life. despite our financial scares, despite aleksander's addiction to his "nanoway" and the television, despite jon's abrupt expulsion away from home and into a stack of books, and despite the current political climate, i am feeling a bit of peace . is it the calm before the storm? or merely a rest in my usual journey? if there are any thoughts, they are of a reflection of myself and the question ringing slightly in my mind of why it is that i judge myself against everything that i see and enter the realm of self-loathing so easily. is there some social conditioning that i cannot at this moment pinpoint that tells me that i am never good enough, that i must always look around, outside myself for the truth of life, the correct way of being? was i somehow raised to second-guess everything about myself from my hair and my clothing, to the art on my walls and the things that i create? i suppose honestly it is there. i can find it and point to it in a variety of locations. what else are we to do in life but to judge immediately upon arrival whether something is good or bad, like or different? and then there are all those media sources telling me constantly about what is beautiful and what is delightful and fabulous. and i buy into it. like everyone, i buy the hook and everything else. i swallow this bullshit whole and then apply it back to myself and realize that my home is not beautiful enough, my skin imperfect, my car not silver enough, my money too little. and it is the authentic me perhaps that is constantly battling all this, trying at every turn to convince me of my worth. and what am i worth? will i ever know? will i ever get the opportunity to write off the world and pat myself on the back and tell myself that i am doing just fine as i am? will i ever stop these exercises in self-annihilation? the picking up of people magazine, or the assessment of someone else's home, or the reading of the websites that tell me how horrible my diet is, how wrong i am to do so many of the things i do... i cannot even read a book without trying to determine if my writing is on par with the author's. i hate so much the competitive urge in me. i want to learn for myself how to be zen, how to appreciate the journey more than the outcome.
aleksander throws his body about the bed, trying to get comfortable among his sweat. the night is humid and hot. he is falling asleep and i have finished the last of many library books, which sit beside me scattered in the twin bed nestled between the full bed and the wall - the bed that is intended for him, but that sleeps jon most nights. he moves again, this time from head down, feet up, to head up, feet down, parallel to me. still not comfortable, he crawls, eyes closed, flopping his body lazily onto my torso. he climbs half over me and i'm wondering if he's waking up to get to the books, but he stops, rests his head on my shoulder, and i open his legs more fully to allow him to sleep comfortably upon me. his arms hang, do not hug. and i wonder, what is this? is this mothering? is this what it is all about? being a human bean bag? and of course the answer is yes. i am being used in the truest sense. and what occurs to me as i wait for him to be fully asleep, is that how i think of this is how i think of myself as mother. am i being taken advantage of? certainly. i am being used as a bed. but what does it mean? it means that i am comfort embodied - a good place to sleep. i am being put to use. i have a purpose as that which lulls one into a peaceful state, as that which is secure and unspoilt. i am a sanctuary unto my child. and this is not merely some selfless act that i commit for the well-being, or the well-sleeping of my son. this is a mutually beneficial relationship and he is possibly bringing more to me than i to him. by putting me to use, my body, my breasts, my womb - my son is giving me meaning. he is honoring with physical practice the intent of my biology - not only to harbor, but to nurture. what a gift it is to wholly sustain another, for i am not floundering, wondering which wall to lean on, but am standing upright and bearing the weight of the future. i am gifted myself from the load that i carry. i am proven to myself of my worth and my strength. and i ask, is there anything more right in this world?