writing

stories: imperfect motherhood, imperfect art

this has been a intense week for many people in the world and the US, myself include. Not just politics and crazy weather (which is political now, too) but balancing my own life. you see, being pregnant and being an active mother and wife are not always easy things for me.

if I am honest, I have dropped the ball and curled up on the couch more times than I can count. I imagine this is normal. it takes a lot of work to make a baby. still, I feel like I should be stronger and doing more and accepting my limitations is not easy.

 

 

of course, I know many people have it way harder but I am not writing or living their stories, so comparing suffering is futile. I will only compare this experience to my first pregnancy almost 4 years ago. I remember trying to work a full-time job (doing 10-12 hour days at a computer) and how hard that was for me, at the time. eventually, I got those sea bands and they helped but this time around they have not been helpful. upping my magnesium has helped a lot but it feels like by the second trimester I should be up and about more.

 

of course, every pregnancy is so different and I am not 28 years old. it’s been a while since I’ve been pregnant and my memory of my pregnancy is probably not reliable.  looking back,  that time was so intense and stressful for me. I am not sure why. I think I want it to be perfect. I went prenatal yoga classes, yin yoga classes, pregnancy and birthing classes, and parenting classes. I bought a gazillion books, listened to all the podcast and read way too many internet articles.

I thought all this information and right things would make my birthing and parenting experience fool-proof. I wanted it to be perfect because I had such an imperfect childhood. of course, my doula and my therapist (at the time) both told me to hold my horses and not be so caught up in “being a perfect mother”. of course, I said I was but I really expected a fairytale.

a fairytale it was not. not the pregnancy, not the labor and definitely not my parenting. oh there are stories upon stories that I could write and maybe I will. right now, I want to shake the cape of perfection from my shoulders. I don’t even want to dare myself to reach for it.

you see, despite being ridiculously sick and heartbroken over so much, I still feel very joyous about this new life brewing inside of me. I don’t know if i should feel guilty about that but i don’t want to live in absolute misery for 4 years, if I don’t have to. Yes, I want to feel all the feels but I also want to live as best I can, regardless. I think I will write an essay about that, too. Zora Neal once said, “I am not tragically colored…. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”~ Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road. of course, I do weep at the world and the injustices against people of color but the fighting spirit in that sentiment guides me.

 

this little sprout has reminded me that yearning to change the world is a catalyst for actually changing yourself. that any sustainable change always begins inside of me. & it always begins by letting go of dogma and doctrines that don’t serve my life and diving into the mess and mayhem with an open heart, a faulty will (at times) and elbows working with love. & I won’t get it right. not in my attempts to be an engaged citizen or a good enough wife and mother. and that’s okay. however, it does not relieve me of the responsibility of trying. 

lately, I have been working on my art. it always feels silly to call it that but that’s what it is. it feels like the marriage of all my loves—visual and words. it feels like something that I can offer myself and this world. it feels like something that is needed. we all have access to the news but do we all have access to solace and hope? I wonder at the role of hard information block upon hard information block and our souls. I don’t think it can be healthy. we need something more. I don’t think I have the answer for everyone but for me it works. as wonky as my art feels to offer to the world, it something that I do offer with deep love because every act of love is worth it. I don’t think I will change the world, the administration or the mind of anyone but that’s not the point. the point is not to have the perfect combination of words and images to convict anyone. the point is to create and offer.   

 

  I don’t know why I am writing this. maybe one day I will need to look back at this and remind myself that neither love nor the fruit of love (offerings) have to be perfect. imperfection is okay. imperfection is survivable. imperfection is still love. 

Bitnami