i hurry rushing flushing bluster of nerves
i pause from stacking the tank tops on the shelf
behind the door of knotty pine, that slides, a bit rough on its track
stop
what am i doing? for whom and i changing what just was? who am i trying to be?
my healing vacation of quasi-awakening in traumatic shifts of the self
coming to a close. they’re already in the car. my mother driving him
home to me, his mother
an artist when he is away
i slide empty canvases and masterpieces just the same
inside a brown paper box awaiting life, when she comes again
since becoming a mother, i have been trying to find my other mother way
but no. i have to make my own way of mothering, because
i am terrified of the other mothering
the one without unconditional love offering freedom to be creative
somehow there has to be space
for art in momming
it now is who-i-aming, so expand i must in my mothering
i choose to make space for the artist, the child in a home
without freedom to create, to be seen in her brightness and her glory
to the sweetness within my mothering
i offer kindness to you, who will not be understood
some of us cannot hold space for
no art in our hearts, lest not in our eyes
of the children artisting in our homes
is that what you’re wearing? (she asks)
yes, mom
–
edited:
i hurry rushing flushing bluster of nerves
pause from stacking painted tank top, black sweatshirt on a shelf
that sits behind a heavy splintered door made of knotty pine
which doesn’t slide any longer, broken now and laying rough within its metal creaking track
stop
what am i doing? for whom am i putting all this away? who am i trying to be?
my healing vacation of quasi-awakening, traumatic shifts of the self
coming to a close. they’re already in the car. my mother driving him
home, to his mothering
artist when he is away
i slide empty canvases and dried lumpy creations from core
inside a brown paper box awaiting life, when she comes again
since becoming a mother, i have been trying to find another mother way
which, it doesn’t work it hurts more than helps, i know it cannot be true, because
i am terrified of the other mothering
she doesn’t have unconditional love, or give freedom to be creating
somehow there has to be space for me, the artst in me, within all of my mothering
it is who-i-aming, so i must be expanding
i choose to make space hold space offer grace for the child in this home
full of life in her space in all she creates her brightness and her glory
and to sweet attempts and perfect failings within all of our untrue mothering
i offer kindness to you, who won’t be understood
some cannot hold space for
art in our hearts, lest not in the eyes
of children within our homes
stop, is that what you’re wearing?
yes, mom
