how I have missed the churning pavement
beneath my feet.
Makes for finding me
I was brought to tears by a painting
John Singer Sargent
Mrs. Hugh Hammersley.
I brought my spouse to it.
He was not moved.
He had another agenda.
But my eyes were full
and my heart,
I wonder about this mother role that I jumped into without knowing.
After searching this famous photo of Dorothy Lange's for answers within the lines of worry and life upon the subject's face, I thought about how our functionality of being human has altered us -the current mother having so much choice. ..too much?
We are just looking to have the space and place to make and birth the babies, right?
Yet now, so different. With the competition to be "men" and handle everything.
Brings it's also to interesting launching points for the role of men- when we used too argue that we were just a uterus for the men, now we can say they are walking sperm.
Swung the other way the pendulum has, no?
And i, sitting with this book of photos, reflecting upon my own world- what do I have to say?
Where is my space and my place?
Do I get to find it even if I have already had the children?
I am not so lucky.
I have to dig around for mine
without using tools
without knowing there are tools
without seeing that there were gifts to awaken within.
mother is in the garden
weeding in the rain
father is at the computer
playing - or creating - a game
sister is sorting books
putting them in oder
me myself and I
All Pointing signs can be avoided rather than pricked on...however, this does not change the fact that they are still very much there.
This, from Galactic Rabbit:
Every couple of years I notice articles circling the internet describing the passing down of intergenerational trauma. How our fears and sorrows, our deepest sources of grief, are etched into our DNA and delivered into the bodies that come from our bodies. A sadness like a vampire inside you—immortal. These sorts of scientific findings compel me to wonder how quiet pain is measured. I think about the way my mother’s face turns dark at the mention of sex. I think about my father’s bad heart and how, when we were states apart, my body felt him fall to the floor. I fell down too; I cracked my chin open. Unconscious, I pissed myself and was ashamed.
In an essay about Serena Williams, in Citizen, Claudia Rankine writes:
Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.
Libra, yesterday your body was a living record of all that has happened to you and before you. Today, your body is just a human body—it is muscle, blood, and bone. In order to protect it, the stories that evoke shame must have a different ending. You must be brave enough to write them.