Not now

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Clinking the last dish into the drainer, she dries her hands and the single tear running down her cheek. “Self care” she hears her therapist say, in the echoes of her ever chattering mind.

Walking past the unvacuumed floors and today’s untended mail, she makes her way to the washroom and draws herself a bath. Bending over to place the stopper, steam drifts towards her face…and another tear falls, joining the tiny ocean she is building.

The same clothes she’s been wearing for two days now, falls to the floor. Stepping into the hot liquid, she remembers the mound of laundry waiting for her…“Not now”, she thinks.

Saturated and soaking in the steamy bath, islands of bubbles float around her body like lonely continents and collect at her breasts. The warm water soothes her aching muscles, releasing the pain from her soft tissue and pushing it into the bony prominences of her spine that lies flat against the hard bottom of the bathtub. Plump, pink feet propped on the stone wall in front of her, she judges their pudgy appearance, yet, welcomes the cool air that envelops her lower extremities, a reprieve from the heat that her body is soaked in.

She is tired.

She wishes the walls of this tub would melt away and that the water were an ocean that she could float away in.

She wishes that lying down would relieve the weight she’s been carrying on her shoulders, as if it were a backpack…weight that feels extra heavy today.

Closing her eyes, she imagines that weight falling backwards into the white walls of the tub, giving her small frame and her soul a break for just a moment. And she floats, suspended in the warm, soapy basin.

The un-quiet of her mind quickly opens her eyes again and staring at the ceiling, she notices a spot of mildew. Her mind wanders to another task that needs tending; but she takes that thought and puts it on a leaf in her mind and watches it float down the river…“Not now…” she whispers.

“Not now” when the office calls for yet another “favor”, “Not now” when her mother starts to criticize, “Not now” when a girlfriend comes just to gossip, “Not now” when life asks for more than she can give.

Now, she tends to her “self”. Now, she takes a break. Now, she lets her body rest…and begs her mind to do the same. Now, she starts to heal.

She is not a laggard. She is a castaway who has given every ounce of energy her body could produce. And she is exhausted. Swimming without a life raft, tossed like debris in the angry seas of life, storms raging around her, head bobbing, she has surfaced from the crashing waves, but she is choking. In a moment of desperation, she reaches for a passing piece of driftwood and clutching it, she collapses. She is in survival mode.

She wishes it hadn’t come to this. She wishes it weren’t such a heavy blow which brought her to realize her self-worth…and self-preservation. She wishes she had reached for help sooner. She wishes she had saved more reserves for the swim. She wishes she felt more sure of the land she was floating towards.

Nonetheless, she is floating. After she rests, she will swim.

And then, one day, one day when her feet once again feel earth, she will run.

But not now

Now, under the moon’s gentle light…in the quiet of an empty house, despite every lie the universe tries to whisper…she tells her self… “You are enough…right now.”

 

 

 

A Mother’s Fire

 

Barefoot and exhausted, her body ached with every move.

Her heart was apprehensive, though her soul quietly soothed.

Her ancestors’ cloth and leather strings wrapped around her-

Swollen breasts, bloody streaks and a womb empty from labor.

In her arms- tiny and perfect, brown curls and hopeful eyes,

Five tiny fingers clutching the strings, an instinct to stay alive.

 

The little one feared nothing, while her mother feared it all.

Her heart beat faster and faster while she answered the call-

Towards the beating drums, towards the light, and the heat,

Forever moving forward, the mother’s tired, aching feet.

 

Until soon, she approached the flames and there she did pause

The drums quieted, the elders waited and she stood for her cause.

Desperate for answers or a sign of affirmation

She came to the Fire God for a mother’s confirmation

“Tell me I can do this!”, she pled in her mind,

Praying the response from the flames would be kind …

 

“The journey ahead of you is long and hard and the answers I have are few;

But the love you have is stronger than you know, for this life you hold, that is new.”

 

“Promise me god of all the fires, that my baby will always be safe,

For my soul cannot carry the burden of her hurt or the tears that her eyes will chafe.”

 

“That I cannot not promise,” came the voice amongst the flames

“Life is a battle not a series of games.

Assurance lies not in circumstance.

Pull from these flames that flicker and dance,

The strength of the warriors who fought in these fields.

And when the day comes, that her tears flow without yield

And her heart looks to you in panicked hurry,

Call upon it without hesitation- of a pain stricken mother, there’s no greater fury.”

 

“Dear fire gods,

I fear I’ve not got enough strength, to fight what you say might be coming…

My hands are weak, my feet are tired, and my insides are painfully groaning.

How am I to survive this long journey?

I fear of her perfection, I may not be worthy…”

 

“I assure you dear woman, you were chosen by the stars

To mother this child, despite your flaws and your scars.

You are the greatest teacher she will know-

Knowledge, love, and skills, to her you will show.

Don’t be afraid, for tonight you will gain

The fuel that will power you through all of your pain.

Inside of each mother is the strength of the fire, that when summoned will easily burn

every heartache and threat that touches her child, into embers those threats will be turned.”

 

In silence she departed, unsure of her strength, but clutching her babe, knuckles white.

Ne’er would the world know a greater strength, than a mother, for her child, does fight.

 

As she settled back to rest on the floor made of earth,

Her swollen breast eased, as her babe began to nurse.

With one hand she held her newborn; from inside her, the milk and blood flowed.

And with the other, she held her spear, and the fire in her heart glowed.

 

It would be many moons before the battle would come-

When it did, there’d be no chanting or beating of drums;

But that fire that was lit so many nights ago-

That fire still burned, and it wouldn’t let go.

Until she avenged every blade that was thrown

At the babe she once held, a piece of her own.

Fighting for the ultimate success of humanity,

Is the mother whose child is loved to infinity.

 

But that babe no longer held leather ties,

But a spear of her own, that through the air did fly.

And side by side, they battled the beasts

That on womens’ hearts, set prey to feast.

And soon the old mother came to understand,

That a spark from the fire, on her offspring did land.

 

And when the day would come, that her daughter had her own,

A resurgence of fire would encircle her throne.

No man or beast would ever take her down

or tarnish the brilliance of Woman’s great crown.

 

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

crying angel

“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Sitting on the bottom step … cold, hard cement under her torn jeans and a busy world around her that seemed to be standing still … she held her head in her hands.

The pretty girl with the perfect spirals of hair that fell delicately in front of her deep brown eyes … almost hiding them and the tears that they have poured over her beautiful face. Her perfect smile, chased away. Her musical laughter, muted like a busted music box. The plans for her perfect life, shattered, like a fist through a mirror. Her beautiful heart bleeding.

Her perfectly pink lips trembled and she whispered, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

A small school girl, she would hop and squirm in her seat. Her small hand waving frantically in the air, she’d beg, “Oh oh oh….pick me! Pick me!” So anxious and eager she was back then, earnest for a chance to give the answer, for a chance to try…

Not today … not this time.

This time she would’ve put her hand down. She would’ve hidden under her desk, slunk to the back of the room. She would’ve run … out of the classroom, out of the building … out of the world to escape this. She would’ve paid any money, rubbed any stone, whispered any spell, prayed any prayer … not to be picked this time.

She knows these things happen. She knows no one deserves it. She knows she couldn’t have stopped it. And yet here she sits, with her head in hands and cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

Delicately perched on the step, an empty eggshell ready to crack- like a fractured fairytale, only there’s no happy ending. Breathing is her greatest task. And as she cries and breathes … the tears become fewer and the breathing, deeper.

The empty egg-shell is not so empty after all. Inside, it holds the steel frame of a woman who doesn’t know her strength. But as she breathes, slowly, she begins to notice the supports within her.

Still she cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

The longer she sits, the more she becomes aware of the steel bars that compose her core, her inner strength. And she tries to stand.

Her knees shaking, her body trembling, she takes a step … and then another … and then another.

And then for the first time, she lifts her gaze to the street in front of her- full of people, full of obstacles, full danger and judgement…

The journey ahead is frightening and overwhelming, but she knows that she can do this. She can walk this walk and fight this fight. Inside of her she can feel the strength of the many warriors, women who came before her … and she knows that she isn’t just a survivor, she’s a conqueror.

Shadows begin to move and let way to slivers of light. Though she knows some shadows will always remain.

Her legs, once too weak to stand, get stronger with every step. Her head, once fallen, raises higher with each stride. Her eyes, once too filled with tears to see are now filled with focus and direction. And her heart … as strong as it beats and as full as it is … her heart still bleeds …

because she whispers, “I really, really, didn’t want it to be me.”

Still she takes another step.