February 7, 2011

I forget what a blessing words are sometimes. Oh, the wonder is always there and my mind is always grinning about some letters or others, but when I say ‘blessing’ tonight, I mean it in that deep-rooted grand-scale way. The same way a mature Eros between two souls staves off death and loss and the chaos. Mystery, terror. The real kind – where you realize at 23 that your parents were your age before and chose to be together to stave off the loss of their parents. Where you see them standing between their own youth, their children, and their parents dying. It seems like just yesterday..
So you realize that your soul’s mate (or if you have none [since/yet], the closest thing you can find) is your home. Your causes and your blood and your pleasures are always with you and are not a phase. They are the dailies. Breath.
But deliberately surrendering to the force of Eros, deciding you will in fact grow it, that sacrifice is a growing pain you’re privileged to be endowed with… well, this is the turning point.

I’ve always felt pretty aware and pride myself on values. My internal life is spent almost entirely on weighing values and making sure the integrity of mine add up. In this way, nothing really surprises me, only interests me, or draws me near, sometimes just to watch. Sometimes to bear witness, because I have to. And because no one else wants to.
But as I keep stretching into a woman’s maturity, it occurs to me how long the growth and the cycle will take. I can sort of make out the beginnings of a path that feels, to my soles, endless. Prior to this, I’d intuited this hard length, but it came from that simple knowledge – the kind where you’re not sure why, but you’re certain nonetheless.
Most of the feelings about the long path are still intuitive. But I’m beginning to see it where I hadn’t before, and it looks nothing like the conceptualized blurry hint I had.

Words and flags both stir another knowing inside of me. Eros-importance knowing. Thanks words. Thanks flags.

On the train tonight I wrote to myself and it felt so nice. I’d stopped for a good amount of years in hopes that the clouds around my head would clear and make way for more muscle and blood type endeavors. That I would learn to communicate and assert myself externally in a more timely, efficient fashion.

Thankfully, it still helps organize. I don’t think writing to myself has ever done me ill.

Flash the Child is gone.

“I have lost unformed children, I have killed my own dreams and choked myself mid-howl. I’ve stood and watched silently to survive, ignoring the strength of red blood boiling in my limbs and the strife in my heart.
But until today I have been a woman-child still, mothering without the loss which defines a mother’s real strength. It’s easy to say no and hold on fiercely. Antigone. My soul. But I am also human. And as a real mother, I let my son, my CHILD, be sacrificed for the sake of The Pack. To maintain a family strucure I’ve only begun to believe in working on.
My wildness has led my paws for quite some time. I’ve been trying to reconcile. Pay penance for being who I am and living where I do. I try to adapt. Still, I am ever the finned woman whose legs chafe and keen inside the mind song. She tried to walk upright but her legs wobbled in thin, poor imitation. She would never be like them. My fate has me here. I adapt. Not well, sometimes, but I don’t give in. The easy part. “No.”
Today I sent away my son. No one told me about this part of motherhood – the grace and dignity required for loss. I didn’t ‘lose’ him. Today, after I broke all of his trust in me to maintain integrity of the Pack, the People, I wept and crated myself in a weave of disappointment, anger, shame.
The part to reconcile alongside/beneath the personal (what ELSE IS THERE) is the act. The reality. He’s gone. Now I have to gather my parts up. My hound. He’s gone. It was… it is my fault. He’s gone. He was only a pup. He was only a pup. A child could look to my path of Democracy and be proud of her mother’s vision of humanity. My pup cannot. Today I chose one over the other. The choice was made, the kick delivered.
Growing is a privilege. It is painful and sometimes I think of being a girl. And then I recall the rest of the story.
For any part of me worthy of standing up, of my mind and eyesight and critical strength, For any wildness and power of earth in my flesh, I pray for a single grace — May he be able to reform after breaking and love whoever he ends up with. In the country. I will love him forever. I will think of his fear with my heart for all time. May he find comfort in a gentle moment and strength in what little he got of me, and in all he will always have of me. Our bones are the same, and his soul is the same as mine.”


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