There are axes, around which my life spins in a spiral. Life grows out and up but circles back ever around a center. Always I will be the mad maiden ripped apart in an instant, moved to and with tears and now, too will I hold this mother weight in me as an anchor and root.
I sit in a rectangular, small waiting room and imagine, for entertainment, what my fellow wait-ers think of me. I think I appear like this: a mom, typical and suburban and unremarkable but for small punctuations of a different self inside: ring through my nostril, edge of a tattoo visible from some angles. Reading like a student with a pen in hand. A cluttered person, like a scattered professor, with too many things. Book, scarf, bag, cash in too many different pockets. Head in the meanings of leaf colors the layers in my fiction, I fumble through a little bureaucracy.
Why do I think mother conjures these words? Tame, asexual, safe, boring, settled, middle, average, stagnant. It's directly oppositional to my experience. I make poem-paintings about the teeth and claws in me from the birth ritual, the primal red thing awake in me that thrashed my daughter into being. Who is telling me I'm a frumpy sitcom mom now? Is it just that motherhood coincided with a shift to a period of money and time worries and a marriage changing from honeymoon to Life? That my art is no longer a thing I neglect casually but is now a sadly missed exercise? My mind is wasted on small things.
In the autumn I'm pulled out of the mundanes of earthy things and man-made things and everything is amplified and focused, where the magnifying glass makes them both visible and hot. The between-ness of the season takes away the newspaper black & white and makes time tangible and rich. It's easy to taste Samhain as a new year and High Magick and have the word witch on my tongue like wine.
The sun comes like a god and a cool, foggy earth opens and it's all sex and mystery and I'm not a harried wife stealing a day for errands, I'm a poet in a trance and my favorite trip-priest is weaving a god story from ignited gases. Today I will be a Creatress, not a designer; I will put magic in my bread with the flour; and I'll whisper secrets and hidden worlds into bedtime stories. I am an open, faceted creature and I will remember, today, to feel.
(Thank you Tool and INXS for lyrical mysticism.)