I remember loving you with nuclear heat
Though we stayed cool together,
our feelings ran deep & our flesh
was contained in polished exoskeletons.
No one could touch us; many tried,
calm & knowing
to whom we belonged
Easily kept the world out of our shells.
We hardly spoke, yet it was clear
we partook of destiny – so meant to be
That the world didn’t trouble us at all.
You bought me a silver engraved heart necklace –
I still remember the weight of it around my neck
And I miss it just as I miss you.
Floated around her bare legs like flags waved in surrender.
All shades represented, from almost white to blue-black,
She stood at attention, trying to focus
On the tea instead of the delicious slide of silk on silken skin.
He waited, patient as a crone
For her to take another step into his world.
Not really giving a damn about the tea;
Her presence owning him completely.
They each saw something in the other
That belied the truth – she, able to surrender,
And he, thirsty.
These hands look just like my great-grandmother’s – we called her Granny. I think they are beautiful & reflect a lifetime spent doing for others – these are the hands of love. Lately I’m noticing a change in my own hands – my collagen is gone & I’m starting to get wrinkles there & I’m realizing I’m on my way to having hands like these. I’ve always been vain about my hands, so I have mixed feelings about this latest change in my body.
My Granny was a wonderful mother; anything I learned about how to love I learned from her & her eldest daughter, my grandmother. Recently one of my granddaughters called me Granny & I discovered that I’m perfectly ok with that. I’m a young-looking 57, so I don’t look the part, but if that’s what she wants to call me, I’ll take it. I’m discovering that I really love being a grandmother. I wish I had the means to spoil them all rotten, but they’ll just have to settle for me. I hope I’m enough. I hope I’m half the loving grandmother my Granny was.
After my last post my roommate & I had a bible study with another sister. The topic was discipleship. I learned that the bible only refers to Christ followers as Christians 3 times. We are far more often called disciples & are commanded to take up our cross & follow Him. We are further commanded to deny ourselves & follow God’s way & to know that it isn’t easy – just as Christ’s mission wasn’t easy. But this is how the world will know Who we follow. Jesus also gives a beautiful promise after the command to follow Him: that He will surely be with us through difficult times & circumstances.
It occurred to me that this other “Mom” could very well be my cross to take up & that in obeying God & praying for her, she could find salvation. That is none of my business; I’m simply commanded to love her. True, I’ve had to pray to the Holy Spirit to love her through me because I just can’t yet bring myself to love her. That may be the best I can do for awhile in my human weakness. But I’ve prayed to love others who have done me wrong; she won’t be the first, so I have every expectation of success. With God’s help, Amen.
I’m having a problem with jealousy. My daughter calls another woman Mom & this drives me mad with rage. Because she calls me Mom as well. And I’m sure the other Mom knows this & is laughing her ass off about it, because you see, she’s just that kind of person. It wasn’t bad enough she stole my husband & any chance we had of staying together, she taught my children to call her mom. This was before I left, but it was a huge reason I did leave. And she’s still doing it. My twins are 35 years old & still persist in this practice. She’s a drug & alcohol-ridden piece of garbage, but she gets to be called Mom. Some days I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to work through this.
I’ve neglected my blog of late. I’ll try to post something interesting to make up for it. The pic above is a quilt – an art form I used many years ago but have since abandoned. But I’m so in need of doing some art – textile art, that is. Textile collage/mixed media to be precise.
I have acquired some supplies & they stare at me & I stare at them, neither of us knowing how to start. It’s like the beginning of a love affair; two hearts wanting to join but still afraid of what will come after surrender.
It started with one dissatisfied woman;
Drank her way to Nola & back again.
Then fell in love with a uniform,
Then, twin brothers
Each helpful to the other.
Mystery how she couldn’t love them,
But I could, & did, until their loss.
Finally a baby sister,
I tried to love her, but she nearly
broke my nose as I held her,
Baby head lurching forward
In her excitement to be held by me.
I must admit, I held a grudge for that injury
But not for long.
Then came my own, born into my
Tornado of a mind, me unable to
make sense of love, to make sense of anything.
They think I threw them away, but really it was me
Gone round the mountain.
Now, out of three
I have one & while I rejoice in my one,
I wish also for the remaining two.
Maybe some day.
I’m learning to mother my un-mothered
children along with myself.
There is joy, there is pain;
All is good for growth.
I give thanks.
It is not my desire to vilify my mother. I think she did the very best she could with tragically few resources. I just feel like some final bits are rising up in me for healing & forgiveness. Now, she has been sober for 20 years, or so I’m told. I tend to believe it because I feel like I’m getting to know someone I never knew before; she’s happy most of the time when I talk to her. She’s funny, insightful & takes ownership, as far as she is able, of the crappy upbringing my siblings & myself had.
Since the recent death of my brother, she has shown me a grieving side of her I never saw before. It’s hard to resist her tears. I find myself comforting her as though our roles had switched. She has known as much loss & sorrow as I have & it’s hard to recall her as the abandoning, drunken mother she once was. Now she’s a person who has lost a child & who longs for sympathy which many would deny her. I find myself drawn to this version of my mother, drawn to healing & forgiveness. It’s my turn to show her my belly & trust her not to tear it out. So far she’s shown none of the behaviors that used to drive me to stay out all night in friends’ houses.
I suppose it boils down to this: I love her. She gave me life. She did some very mothering & brave things for me growing up – things a good mother would do. It’s time I began showing her my appreciation & giving her love. Our family herstory is littered with unmothered daughters, lost children, lost or inadequate fathers & lots of sorrow. My unmothered daughter Megan is helping me create a new paradigm.
My beautiful daughter, Megan. She’s loving, brave, determined & mine.
I had twin brothers. Past tense. My mother allowed my paternal grandparents to adopt them when I was around 5 & they were 4. I went to see them when I was a teenager. That’s it. I found out yesterday that the elder twin, Lynn, died 10 days ago most probably from complications of diabetes. He died 10 days ago & I’m just now hearing of it. My family is strange that way. Ties are afterthoughts. Emotions aren’t important. Pain is the norm.
Because I had so little contact with them, I’m remembering him as a little boy. To try to picture him as a grown man hurts too much. I’m so very sad & grieving the loss of that little boy. I remember being very protective of my twin brothers. I remember loving them so much. Then nothing. Just silence forever more. RIP my dear little brother whom I never knew.