Lovely Lady Mae and Miss Fix It

It blew in on the wind that day.

A sweet, cold, spring wind.

A wheel returning again.

Listen.

Remember the quaking of the leaves in summer?

Listen.

What a body needs to tell

 Then the paradoxical refrain repeats

One bright day in the middle of the night

Two dead boys got up to fight

Back to back they faced each other

Ask the blind man he saw it too

 

Come all ye cloud people.

You're too full of your self

Time to rain it down

The earth is thirsty for your teaching.

Violent storms are coming

Wither and weather

Each to each other

 

Willows grow in wild lands

Fed by rain, and gritty dirt.

nourished by the earth

seed blown in on the wind

Root and stem

To become earth once again

 

Rise up the metal of the earth

Hard

Strong

unbending

Make us tools to fight

Back to back we will face each other

 

All returns

All made and is unmade

All is so really unreal

 

The she lives in the tween spaces

That's where truth is

None better

None worse

Grey lady

 

A thread in the weave

A fabric

Criss, Cross

Up and under and through

Perfect imperfection

A mercy in the seams of things

 

Silly women 

Lost in her mind

God is outside

Ready to feast and dance

Don't miss all the good stuff

While seeking the better

 

Circular thinking

I guess I could make up a god

Like some frustrated philosopher

Madness laughs

madness is stillness in anger

To stay when you should move

Swift feet 

To straighten a groove

 

How to talk

How to listen

Standing in the light.

Standing in the cold….

(Okay, Asher what do you want?

To eat. To eat. I make the sign to eat. Pull out the various food items

We can't stand in front of the fridge  all day

Silas toddles up and closes it on both of us. )

 

Wait, where was I in my musings? Thinking of god while missing the moment. Thinking of how it could all be better. Can I stay here in the beauty of this perfectly imperfect day? Hold the full catastrophe of it all? Just be here on the mountain. Bring it down. Bring it down. Pull it round. One more stitch. The thread through the fabric. Over and through, again and again.  It's all a practice, really. When you're paying attention there really are no mistakes.

 

The threads pulled, and they knit together the wounded mind. Beyond any Devine notions. Her notions are sewn into the fabric, seen in the grain. Impermanence tumbling in the wash cycle. Beautiful for now, not meant to be forever. This thread across continents carries too much pain. Disconnection. Discontent. Spider weave a web. Go home. Go home. Run to the river. Sing to the ocean. Plant the seed where it can take root. The lives that pull from the past. The song that sings from the future. Might I play my part in this unfolding. May I hold this thread?

 

Mother, Mae, and I.

All at the table, long, sturdy and made of wood.

 

So now then. Let's sit and have some tea. Bring it down to earth like the men operating the concrete mixer in front of my house. Doing what? Fuck if I know. But that's really not the point. Don't worry. We will find the point. I know I left it hanging around here somewhere. If not though, well I guess we really didn't need it anyway.

 Being a mother makes me want to be better. Better in my relationships. Better to myself. I want to be able to answer the questionings of my children in the future. I want to know myself enough to be what they need from me. In this time I am really just trying to be with them. To look into my son's eyes and truly see him. To be able to creatively redirect and teach. It's all practice in the steps and sitting at the table. How to be soft. How to be kind. How to teach myself to be more proactive and less reactive. How to keep my temper in check when things are frustrating. Because I have to be the pre frontal cortex for three people.

 Being a mother makes me look back to my mother. Then to think back further. It makes me think of things passed down. Grandma Mae was the fun grandmother, so my mother says. She struggled a lot. I don't actually remember her but I've spent a lot of time with her stitches recently. She made me a pillow when I was born. A little pink thing with a lady appliqued on the front. It was in real rough shape this year when I restored it. Stained, deflated, all the lace trim torn off. I cut off the edges. Washed it. Added more fluff. Then decided instead of lace that I would blanket stitch the edges together. Then looking closer I saw her stitches. Blanket stitch. Just there. Just like me she didn't connect the stitch when changing out the thread. I felt her then. As if she was saying. It's all okay. It's still beautiful. Maybe even more so for the mistakes. Completed is way better than perfect. I think of her struggles and i try to learn from them. How do I protect what's mine?

She was my maternal grandpa's mom. I think of my grandfather's anger, and temper. Also his kindness and how he would let me play his harmonica. I think of the tangled threads. I think of his children my mom aunts and uncles.  My childhood. I think of the things passed down. Tangible things to rest a head. Things of comfort. Things unseen.

 I think of the fights that are not really about what they are about. I think of how families are microcosms of bigger chasms. I think of my country. The long threads of colonialism. The force, the violence. The battles for the third world. The places between capitalism and communism. I think of how our actions as a nation have perpetuated such harm. Then the condescending altruism and charity seems hollow indeed. I read a book a while back called Still Life with Bones. The book is about excavating mass graves. I guess the best place to learn it is in Latin America. There is a description of a well. A whole village was killed and then thrown down it and covered with dirt . From the remains they could tell that a woman was buried alive and tried to dig herself out. I think about that often. Her hand. It reaches out like a warning.

 How to contend with the enormity of it all? Well today, we write, we make, we cry, we hold our babies tight. Try to keep to the third path. To live as much as possible in the tween spaces of trinity. God help us this election year. Hopefully the only dirt under nails will be from digging in the garden. But if I have faith in anything it's in people. That they are good. That have always have more in common than different.

 Well, I guess I will leave you here. The kiddos are awake and there are ever so many things to do. You know the important things. The joyful things. And the boring things(because let's face it laundry is like the worst, lol, first world problems). I am grateful to only have first world problems, but weary of feeling like the first is all the cause of the third. To be here right now. Just here at the table with my son eating waffles. All the blessings. Grandma Mae please keep holding my hand. May I hear my mother speak while I can. May I be the mother they deserve. May this month be beautiful with the richness of this little life.