Life is flying all around- bright colors and wide eyes and long luxurious blossoms bouncing into vision.
I wish focus would sit inside the front of my skull and gnaw on life with me. I wish writing would keep flowing out like that dangerous disease it once was. I wish a great many things for this world and for the people that call it home. I wish so much for you. I wish so much for my son. But it’s enough. Life is always enough. I sit with myself and I let March drain out of me. I remind myself what that 17-year old drive was towards and I swallow the reality that surrounds me like fire. Being a mother is the softest fire I have ever let lick my skin. It is grace and forgiveness and holding a small angel in your arms. No one can take it away from me. It is life affirming. It is life itself.
So much is muddled. Feminism…the drab attempts to forge truths in this strange hypnotic cyber world we all inhabit…the seemingly irrational and overwhelming fear of monogamy. There is so much disconnect. So much misinformation. And yet so much information. So much spreading, fanning out, rapidly evolving.
I feel the invisible hands of judgment across the pages my life has turned…and I feel the abstract stings of all those who wish to keep perpetuating this idea that you lose the right to be a feminist if you become a wife and mother at 24. I feel this bizarre presence in the world that fear-mongers against such a fate as this…that the only actualization of a human is through the steady and sacrificial climb through whatever career ladder you think most accurately fits your skill set.
But we are not a series of skill sets and a list of accomplishments on resumes. We will not file into that great darkness at the end of our lives with meaning because we drove ourselves towards some abstract profession. The meaning is here. The meaning is present. The meaning is in the story you life, the life you give, the love you spill out from your skin and the truths that guide you hazily across the threshold from year to year to year. People that obsess mindlessly on this idea of “accomplishing” are clearly not getting the whole picture. The whole of time and space. The inconceivably small speck that we are in the universe. The way that what should be chased is empowerment, not power…fulfillment, not simply a filled schedule…and the endless poetry of love that surely must be the only force in the world that leaves any marks. Make your life a sublimely beautiful poem. That is the greatest accomplishment anyone could ever achieve. Do what you can do. Only what you can do. Don’t be hard on yourself. Go at your own pace. Whatever it may be. Squeeze out the dregs of creativity that flow in your blood and be a part of the amazing, magnificent unfolding of your life that is always happening. Always taking you. Always teaching you. And that is enough. And that is all you need to do. Just breathe. And be poetry in motion.
Feminism seems to blindly bat its hands and arms in all flailing directions these days without embracing that which is feminine. Instead, people want to make feminism the thrust towards making women more like men…instead of empowering and building up all that is female. ALL that is female. Especially the life giving magic of motherhood. Especially the powerful indignation of career. Especially the graceful art of sensuality. Especially the raucous hands of something wild and untamed. ALL of femininity. Embrace it all or stumble on your own feet that are trying to walk forwards.
I want to do it over not because I can’t remember the reality of what happened. But because the things that bothered me then don’t matter to me now. Not because I am willing to let go of them because I am desperate…but because I grew up. Or I grew back. Or I let go. And now for the life of me I can’t think of a single thing that would bother me. And that breaks my heart. That breaks my heart to finally be in the place where I am ready to be what you would have needed…but I can never get it back. And I can never get the chance to start over back. Because I had to go through everything IN ORDER to let go. I had to go through the years, the marriage, the birth…to give me perspective, to make me let go of all the stupid nonsensical things that hung on my shoulders and dragged me so far from the person you fell in love with. And because I feel so helpless to how I even became the person I was that second time in Australia. I feel like I didn’t have a choice in any of it at all. I didn’t want to feel the way I did…and yet I felt helpless to it. I have a feeling you felt the same way. And yet, now that I am awake and back in my self…my old self…now that I know what to do…I cannot do it. I am not allowed to make it better. I am not allowed to go back. I am apparently not even allowed to tell you this. The great tragic paradox of my life. And I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. The aching tragedy at the base of my bones. Because I want it back. So badly. So badly. So badly. You, me and the sea. You, me and a blue canoe.