It's midnight and I'm starting this now.
Writing. Unwinding. Letting the day (the week...s) slide off of me like the heat slipping from my skin and onto the cool sheets at the end of a muggy July day.
It's the first real moment I've had to sit still since school happened. Since the month of June happened. It feels...amazing. Like letting go, again. And I'm reminded that peace is a practice. A habit about which I'm training myself to become accustomed. Which is so very hard, being that I'm my mother's daughter (a worrier of the most severe variety, she hardly ever sleeps through the night...Instead, she listens to the chorus of What if, what if, what if? that goes on sloshing through her mind all night long, until she finally passes out, just before the alarm rattles to wake my father.) Oh, I am so her daughter.
She and I have almost always been alike. Awake together during the nights, even while miles apart. Sick at the same time, again, while miles apart. Very connected. Maybe this is why I'm so drawn to writing about the mother-child connection in my stories. The bond, as I've experienced it, is so beyond explanation that I'm limited to using fictional characters in an attempt to describe it.
And writing here is my (lame) attempt to describe the glories of my own experience as a mother. A mother and wife and student and now & again office slave and Betty Crocker (and food peddler...have I ever mentioned that I sell food. Not my own, but the prepackaged, gourmet variety...the type that prompts housewives and busy working ladies to host taste-testing parties in their own homes? Probably not. It's not something I pride myself on. Just another hat to wear. Another attempt to put a nickle in the bucket.)
Wow. I am officially moving to a full speed ahead tangent.
Where was I again? The day sliding off of me...something about cool sheets?
Yes.
Time for bed.
Writing. Unwinding. Letting the day (the week...s) slide off of me like the heat slipping from my skin and onto the cool sheets at the end of a muggy July day.
It's the first real moment I've had to sit still since school happened. Since the month of June happened. It feels...amazing. Like letting go, again. And I'm reminded that peace is a practice. A habit about which I'm training myself to become accustomed. Which is so very hard, being that I'm my mother's daughter (a worrier of the most severe variety, she hardly ever sleeps through the night...Instead, she listens to the chorus of What if, what if, what if? that goes on sloshing through her mind all night long, until she finally passes out, just before the alarm rattles to wake my father.) Oh, I am so her daughter.
She and I have almost always been alike. Awake together during the nights, even while miles apart. Sick at the same time, again, while miles apart. Very connected. Maybe this is why I'm so drawn to writing about the mother-child connection in my stories. The bond, as I've experienced it, is so beyond explanation that I'm limited to using fictional characters in an attempt to describe it.
And writing here is my (lame) attempt to describe the glories of my own experience as a mother. A mother and wife and student and now & again office slave and Betty Crocker (and food peddler...have I ever mentioned that I sell food. Not my own, but the prepackaged, gourmet variety...the type that prompts housewives and busy working ladies to host taste-testing parties in their own homes? Probably not. It's not something I pride myself on. Just another hat to wear. Another attempt to put a nickle in the bucket.)
Wow. I am officially moving to a full speed ahead tangent.
Where was I again? The day sliding off of me...something about cool sheets?
Yes.
Time for bed.
Labels: Myself, Ramblings, Writing Life
2 Comments:
Thanks Jamie! I think what I was trying to say is that any of my writings about my experiences in motherhood are going to be lame, not because I'm inept, but because the experience as a whole is sometimes beyond words.
"lame" is not the word I'd use, Mella.
Ever.
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