meditating on mothers who read blogs

Haven’t been blogging as much since my mother started reading my blog…. since she started commenting, it’s been impossible.

Hi, Mom, I love you, but…

So I’m here on the subway on my way to some job, some place of employment where I employ myself, and I wasn’t sure if I should bring my laptop, and I wonder about those writers and PhD candidates and secretarial students who had to carry around their actual portable typewriters which were portable only in as much as they had handles. I got a seat on the train, so I’m glad I brought it. This is time. I try to make use of this time.

Last year I took time off from the various employments to employ myself in novel writing, writing a novel, which I did, which I have done, and the world is much the same as before I started writing except I have some 80 thousand words more that I’ve written. Feels… feels.

Thinking about motherhood. Thinking about the divine mother and child. What it means, what an ideal that signifies two over one means. What does it mean to hold close to another that needs to be cared for, that needs intimacy, that needs room to cleave to and cleave from…

Having had mothers, and currently being a mother, and thinking back to how I was personally mothered, thinking about my mother reading my blog…

I read a post on a feed this morning, a woman had read her teenage daughter’s journal and wasn’t happy w the contents, the notes and comments on lovers she’d had (lovers?! Oh my baby!) And I think about my own secrets, the yearning to spill one’s secrets grows big and strong in all the gray areas as one ages.

What does it mean for the divine to be two? What does it mean for the ideal to be two = one? I had a serious talk w my 8 yr old last night, it lasted about 5 minutes, but it was the utmost in serious. I explained that he was a big kid now, not a little one anymore, a big kid like the big kids we used to see on the playground and we’d say “look at how the big kids play,” and now he is one. I told him that when he was a little kid, he needed parents to comfort, protect, encourage snuggle, all that stuff, and that now, in addition to that stuff, which he will decide he needs less and less, in addition to that stuff he needs parents who will challenge, who will push, who will advocate, yes, and encourage him to advocate for himself. He needs parents who will steer him from bad habits, make him learn to take care of himself, to be discerning. He said “okay, mom.” Okay, mom.

For some reason the more this blog project has gone on the more inhibited I feel about writing it. It’s like, when I first started, and I didn’t think anyone was reading it (before I learned how to check my stats), it was easier to write and submit said words to a public forum.

Hi, lady who is reading over my shoulder. I reduced the doc to 75% but you’re still following along. More power to you, I guess.

There’s a thing that happens where my wants are so loud in my ears I think everyone can hear, and when turns out the wants are a silent fire pulsing through my own neurons I feel more alone, near abandoned. Abandonment is a theme w me, I think, but that’s another story for another day.

There was this one Easter where it was some special thing because I was allowed to wear pantyhose instead of tights. They were magenta maybe, violet, violent. If I was asked if I wanted to wear pantyhose, I’m sure I said yes, bc I thought I was supposed to. But honestly, people, I didn’t care, and even now, I hate hose, as my Gram used to call them. I got a run in them after church, before the party, and I got into trouble for that run in my hose. I had to change into other hose. I don’t know why I needed hose at all, wearing a long ish dress, at least knee length, but that was the deal. So uncomfy. Such a horrid invention, all these fabrics designed to keep ladies pushed in and plumped out. I spent most of that Easter hiding under the dining table.

Why is it that parenthood and marriage brings with it flashback to my childhood? I feel like I relate to my child self more than I relate to other adults, or to adult experiences.

There’s a thing where I feel trapped inside my skin. I don’t feel like my body is my own. I feel like I’m flying above this train and all the people in it, and crash back to earth with my hair in my face, warm bodies of old women on either side of me. Reconciling soul to body is never easy, harder now that the mind body split is being codified into social dogma and ideologies. For a while I was with the physicalists, everything that happens, from every soul scream to in grown toe nail is a causation of a physical reaction. Makes sense, that we are chemistry sets, biology experiments.

Final thought for this commute, nearing my stop. Was at the Museum of Natural History the other day. Love that place, the monument to learning that Teddy Roosevelt built. Watched the Deep Space show in the Planetarium, narrated by Neil deGrasse Tyson. Two things he said stick in my ears.

I’m paraphrasing–-

Wherever you are in the universe, it looks like everything else is speeding away from you. Like, from whatever perspective, vantage point, it feels like you are standing still and everything else is moving away from you at top speed.

It totally does feel like that in life.

And the thing where he says out planet is orbiting “…an unremarkable star.”

Unremarkable.

But what makes our star remarkable is that we are here to remark upon it.

There’s a way that we want our mothers to see us, and we don’t always know what that is. We want to protect them from ourselves, from our darkness, from our oddness, from our intrinsic somethingness, we want to keep them at bay, just as we want them to love us unconditionally, with no sadness about who we are, or how we turned out, or whatever choices we made.

To be a child and a mother simultaneously. To want to let my son know how well I understand, just as there is so much that he wants me to not understand, bc it is new, it is his discovery. To be in orbit, without remarking on it, unable to help but remark upon it. The glow, the warmth, it is so very remarkable.

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2 thoughts on “meditating on mothers who read blogs

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