Tag Archives: womanhood

Surrendering to a Season of Change

Memoir, Motherhood, Womanhood, Writing, , ,

We woke up to rain. Big droplets clinging to the rhododendron and sunflowers outside the bedroom window. Every day on the weekend I ask myself the same thing: Should we stay home and clean, or leave and spend money?

It would be a stay home and clean kind of day.

Usually I welcome fall with open arms. If the fact that we named our daughter ‘Autumn’ is any indication…But this year I’m just not as warm to fall. The summer was long, and scorching. One of our farm cats perished in the 108 degree heat. More positively, we managed to get some family time in with loved ones. Long overdue visits and quality connections as we somehow managed to not even get the Coronavirus. Several times, I thought we had. This most recent time impacted A’s experience at preschool — she missed her first whole week. Over a cold. But we rolled with it. Rolling with it is just the way now. Things change all the time. With headlines like, “National Guard Deployed to Drive School Busses in Massachusetts” and “UN is seeking $606 Million in Emergency Aid for Afghanistan After Taliban Takeover,” we’re living in a totally new reality. Disappointments are common place. Ours are minor.

I started gardening this summer. With a lot of cooperation from my fiancé and our neighbors, a plot of food erected itself, now in view from our bedroom window, beyond the rhododendron and sunflowers. My life is layered and rich. We have tomatoes and peppers piling up in the kitchen, and are running out of freezer space. I’m going to miss the days of summer…stretching on and on. Brown shoulders. Blackberries. Golden sunsets.

With the rain, the environment feels to have shifted beyond its allotted amount while we slept. The moon when I last looked was half full — now it appears almost completely full. It is waxing and ready to shine. Last night, a coyote was howling — more like yelping — and it wouldn’t stop. I went outside to make sure it wasn’t down with the chickens, having a feast and tipping us off with its cries. Barefoot on the dry pale grass, it felt like no one was aware of this animal but me. It was ten o’ clock at night and everyone else was sleeping. I shone my cellphone flashlight in the general direction of the coyote — like what was that going to do? When I went back inside and crawled into bed, the yelping suddenly stopped.

Maybe the coyote doesn’t want summer to end, either.

This pandemic, hanging over us like a curse, feels just a little lighter in the summer. We can pretend that things are sunny, even when they’re not.

Then I came across this quote, which I felt echoed the changing season:

“Historically, the Waxing Gibbous Moon symbolized the concept of ‘final steps.’ It is a time of the month in which people strive to complete their projects, just as the moon strives to become full. As such, it represents the hardest part of the month for many people. How the Waxing Gibbous Moon behaves is instructional for our lives. For instance, it doesn’t require the hard work of change. Instead, it trusts nature and energies and always transitions to the full moon, without fail. Thus, we should try to do the same.”

The words were an antidote. Meant to counteract the insecurities I am currently feeling about Autumn being in preschool and, more specifically, my routine changing as a result of that. I used to be on the farm all the time, now I will be in town two days per week, minimum. A temporary sacrifice to provide Autumn with her Montessori preschool experience. I don’t want to give up my work-from-home life, but when quotes like the above one jump out at me, I’m sensing that I need to adapt. I need to have some faith that something good can come from being in town. (It just goes against my instincts. Hashtag hillbilly.)

I will leave you with this, “Through the unknown, we find the new.” If you, like me, are feeling negative about the future because you just can’t predict it; then what better time to attract the things–and places–that feel right to us? My life is a blank page, waiting to be filled with all the right things. Finally, at thirty five years old, I feel like I can trust myself to choose wisely what will ground me. No matter where I am.

Love,

Mama Bird

Steps to Honoring Your Path

Writing, , , , , , ,

Hold your dreams up to the light. Natural light works best. So hold them up to your window in the morning. Or under a desk lamp, or full moon, at night. Take a few minutes to inspect the foundation: what is it built on, these expectations?  Brick? Loam? Are they your wishes or others wishes for you? How many children are stacked upon the thing? Remember: the children go on top.

Now that you have identified its strengths and abilities, decide what tools you’ll need, and use them with intention.  Fix any weak spots. If writing is your goal, grab a pen and paper and S P E L L I T O U T. One letter at a time. Get real specific. It is a brand-new decade, we haven’t got the time to waste. Yesterday’s gone. What’s done is done. Keep your toolbelt close, you’ll be needing it.

Be rigid. All that gray-area crap is just bs. For some the opposite is true. For you it is not. You need all the stability and predictability and tough love that was withheld from you in childhood. Black. White. Life. Death. Yin. Yang. It’s been twenty years now since you’ve see your mother. Twenty years since you were 14. Since Y2K. A natural rebel, reign yourself in. For even when you wake and say light, light, light, be the light, you cannot shake the darkness at the root of you. Scorpio sun, Aries moon. Befriend routine, the sister to stability. Come to like them. Come to love them. Routine. Stability. Come to understand how much you depend on them. Day. Night. Repeat. Stop stepping into the worn, predictable trail of chaos. You are a parent now. Be sure to act like one. This is your one chance and you won’t get another.

This life is all you ever wanted—a sentiment that’s ringing truer and truer.

Husband. Marriage. Scary.

Know how you feel and know who you are by examining your truths in the light.

Husband. Marriage. Means trusting someone with my heart.

Husband. Marriage. Likely someday, certainly with him. But I want to make sure I can love and trust fully first. Humbly, I am still learning how to do all of that.

Like your child, grow everyday. Grow taller, grow better posture. Study the letters and shapes. Practice your walking: walking into situations that will encourage you to blossom. Walking out of situations that make you feel like you are wasting your precious time.

Do not let others distract you. Even those you lie next to in the night. They have your path and you have yours. Respect your differences. Laugh/brush them off. Your future depends on it. You do you. Sparkle. Shine. Let him laugh when you talk like that. Come back to him in your heart. Only a fool would not. He is your touching stone in this world. Stone. Rock.

Focus on finding your voice through your fingertips. Remember what you care about. Keep coming back to it. Remember: the children go on top. But do take advantage of naptime by writing. Spell it out.

If needed, refer to quotes from your Yogi Tea bag: Appreciate yourself and honor your soul.

If needed, shake off comments and ridicule from others: those who don’t really know you, your past, the unique combination of circumstances that make you tick. For better, for worse. Shoot. You’re here and kickin’. To you, sometimes, that feels like a miracle. If needed, tell yourself you are loved, even if you don’t always feel supported by the world outside your door. You. Are Love(d).

Make art. You always did. You always have. Except for those few times you slipped back into the gray mundane. Make art of the clothes you put on in the morning. Go ahead and wear that yellow dress. Make art of parenting. When you’re throwing the frisbee for the dog on a rainy day, draw flowers in the mud with the toe of your boot.

Do not forget the lessons of your ancestors: Be bold. Be bizarre. Begin again. Begin anew everyday if you must. Queen of the comeback, kid.

Do not forget your longtime mantra: Focus and follow-through.

And this one: Don’t start anything you can’t finish yourself.

Rigid. Bold. Brazen. Independent.

Most people say ask for help when you need it. But you know better. You know the world will poke at your weak spots so burrow down inside yourself and emerge with your wisdom and insights. Do what you know works. Stick with what you’ve learned. Imagine you are a caterpillar, now visualize the miracle of the butterfly, and emerge. Now fly.

Hold your dreams up to the light. Natural light works best. The moon will do.

Now that you’ve spelled it out, what does it say? (For example, mine reads: “I want to be a writer when I grow up. Or a dancer. It was an old thing I’d written on a scrap of paper as a kid.)

Hold space for that little dreamer. Hold the scrap of paper you scribbled on as a child in your hand. Whether metaphorically or physically. Whether your dreams have morphed into something more realistic or not.

Notice all the steps you took to get here. Literally hundreds of miles walked, circling as if you were walking a labyrinth. Notice when space was not honored for your dreams and you had to fight hard for them. Literally gallons of tears cried, remember all the swimming you did to get out of there.

Say this out loud, “This is my space. These are my dreams. Mother, wife, or not.”

Say, “Yes, my dreams. They take up space and they take up time.”

Say, “Now or never. Here to stay or gone forever.”

Hold your dreams up to the light. See how they glisten and shine.

One billion bursts of color, uniquely yours for the taking.

The Hole

Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, relationships, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , , , ,

The hole inside of you does exist
but it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions

“What are you trying to forget?” I once asked a
man who drank too much (according to me, mind you)

“What? Me? Nothing.”

Oh.

The hole inside of you may be there
it’s true
Maybe blasted open in youth, a big
gaping hole of neglect and rejection
or maybe you’ve been carving away at it
for decades, an attempt to become a real
Rockstar–edgy and tortured

The hole inside of you does exist
I’m sorry I ever said it didn’t
but you turn that hole upon its head
and it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions
it’s all in how we look at the cavern
light it up and it’s not so bad after all
not so bottomless–albeit there

IRL

Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , , ,

In real life
sticky black ink
pools at the tip
of my writing pen
it bleeds onto my
fingernail–the ugly one that
was slammed in the front door
I lick my fingernail, wipe
it on my sleeve but the
ink stays, it cannot
be deleted–
which almost
surprises me.

I stare at the page.
my handwriting is that
of a harried, unbalanced person
my handwriting is not feminine
it does not stand up strait but bows
and curls with the weather, with mood
I hate it. I wish my words could be as
pretty as type, as pretty as font.

In moments of weakness and disillusion I
desire — foolishly — to filter our life.
perfectly symmetrical
handwritten pages of
original thought.
this might bring me some joy,
create some illusion of order.

How can I work with ugly and imperfect?
I mean, the goal now is that nothing
is ugly and imperfect: nothing should be
not with the tools we have today
Not our penmanship or our thoughts,
not our friends or our parties and
most importantly: not our faces
oh heavens no, not our faces.

Funny how in our pajamas,
slack jawed and scratching
here and there,
breathing heavily
through garlicked tongue,
we click and primp — determined
to camouflage our shortcomings
(as if nobody knows they’re there)
but in reality when we up and walk
from the computer: we are no better off
than when we sat down

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

IRL we are worse for the wear,
evolving, stupidly
toward disillusionment
passing it off as enlightenment.

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

Windchime

Dreams, Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , ,

A windchime
shutters to life.
Little had I thought
of a windchimes need
for chaos and swirl.
“Be the windchime”
I realize
as practice closes
and in perfect timing I
am set to step into Now,
despite the unpredictable
circumstances and
clouds,
those pushing undercurrents,
life’s unavoidable buoys and lifts,
life’s twisting gates,
opening and closing
with the weather,
with storm
“Be the windchime”
I realize
Make sweet sounds
in the turbulence
of your own life
not for others this time,
but for you

You are the windchime

But I Wouldn’t Wish It On Anyone

Poetry, Prose, Rant, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , ,

If I could
I would tornado
around this town

You’d be better off
inside the eye of me

It would be on a Monday
and I would hold no regard
for pleasantries
for once

My answer to all the trivial
questions I am asked on a typical
Monday over and over and over again
would be answered only by
teeth-shattering wind

and the loudest
goddamned silence
you have ever heard

that would be my wish,
with all due respect
to Mondays

In a rusty-visioned chaos
I would be unable to open my
mouth for fear of shattered
teeth and cinnamon lung
A perfect storm of sand and Zen
would overcome us all
and I would
selfishly be
grateful
for it

for Monday
would be quiet
for once

and no one would
be talking about
the weather

just stunned

To-Do

Dreams, Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, Rant, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , , , ,

Fall apart, let loose into creation
Let my hair down, like a poet would do
Dance a sexy dance, for no one
Write off my obsessions and idols
Lower them until we see eye to eye
Kiss them
Open my mouth
and let love in

Get places on time
step by step, cover the basics
Clock in and clock out
with a smile
Allow myself to fall apart,
just enough behind the scenes that
I walk away with a notecard poem
safeguard–just barely–my reputation
my job title

Forgive others
as easily as I forgive myself
Let loose the reigns
and let em go wherever
the fuck they want

Seize the moment
(cross that out)
Avoid cliches

Fear blank pages
more than scribbles
For mistakes are a sign
of progress

Live in the knowledge
that things cannot be pretty
100% of the time
A concept not limited to
my face, my body
Understand that superficiality
is the sister to vanity
and to view yourself poorly
makes you just as vain as if
to  view yourself pretty
all of the time

So you
do the dishes
tidy up
Everything
Everywhere
All of the time

But most of all you
fall apart
into poetry
even if it means
scribbles and
ink on the fingers
or your face
even if it means
mussying up a
blank page
a blank page
that will roll around
in your purse
in your car
in your junk drawer
mussying up your life
like children or dirty jobs
in general

Fall apart for creation
for a full and happy life
Fall apart for a full heart
and just write

Day to Day

Poetry,

I bend a spoon
back into place
and tuck it in the drawer
I set the table
light a candle
I sweep cauliflower
blossoms from the floor

and hope it counts for
something,
anything

I drag a brown wooden
stool into the kitchen
so I can crouch at the
counter and write poetry
in-between life stuff:
washing tupperware,
filling the dog’s dish,
mulling

I add half a cup of warm water
to the pot and sit and watch it simmer
scratch scratch scratching on my notepad
The radio is too loud
but I need something, anything
I turn it down a notch and
music gives way to news
the state of Connecticut
bans the death penalty
a major fire was ignited this
morning due to a lawnmower
and the operator may be responsible
for the cost

Food aromas fill the kitchen as
my womb moves and aches
I bring my hand to my belly
and wonder if it’s a warning of
menstruation or pregnancy,
granted deep down I already
know the answer…and in
a few short days
I’ll be bleeding and
wearing pads

Out of habit (half-hope) I
squeeze my breasts to see
if they’re sore, and I look
down at them
Steve walks in
he gives me a funny look
as I drop my hand to my
lap in defeat
and turn back
to the pot

Have a Little Faith

Inspiration, Poetry, Womanhood, ,

These shortcuts don’t
work for me no more
I keep coming back around
to where I was before
The mind fucks me once,
fucks me twice, bends me
backwards, sends me shooting
through the sky
I get a scary high from
the things inside my mind
One foot in front of the other
is about all I can do
without my youth I can no
longer choose when and
where and who
there are no longer
options for sick days,
day-drinking, playing
power with my boobs
As I turned into a woman
–I became more substantial too
It’s more like: do what you have to
do to get you through
show up
listen up
battle else embrace the
thoughts inside your mind
whisper the things out loud–
to yourself and in private
inspect the things for faults
and stripped screws
think: Would you want
somebody to think or say
these things to you?
Talk yourself down
in a poem or in a song
Bring yourself down,
pinned to the ground
and whatever you do
DON”T THINK about
who’s going to PICK YOU UP
just lay there–squeegy wiping
the I’m so angry
I’m so hurt
I’m so lonely
so unloved–
erase all that shit
from your mind
there isn’t any time for it,
we haven’t got the time.
Stand strong in your own self
even if your shaking in your boots
even if your person is on fire and
your head is filled with tears and
you can’t seem to decipher
fact from fiction
real life from “intuition”
I’d say get real quiet, don’t
go crashing through the day to day
be honest, be real, and have
a little faith