I open the door as silently as I can. The room is foggy and moist. I squeeze my crunchy down comforter through the doorway and attempt a makeshift bed on the floor next to her crib. The comforter crinkles and cracks so loudly I am certain she'll wake any moment. I peek over and see her sleeping soundly. Soundly and safely. I wonder what it would be like to be an infant again. Everything new, everything fresh, everything wonderful. No wonder her slumber is so deep. I'm jealous of her calm. I slide into my blanket and notice how concrete the floor feels. Already my hips ache. I lay my head down and close my eyes. A movie screen pops up instantaneously. Images flashing by so quickly, I hardly can make out what they are. Thoughts buzzing through at lightening speed. Chaos, mayhem, madness.
Dear God, I whisper, what is happening? Please God, please be with me. I ask permission if I can pray until I fall asleep. With no formal closing, I fear I'm being disrespectful, but no I just need comfort. I need a barrier between me and my racing thoughts. I plead for angels to surround us, me and my baby, in who's room I've chosen for relief. The last thing I want is to bring the madness in here. In this space of peace and purity. Surround us please. An image flashes by on the screen. My brain presses the pause button. Back up. Right there, amongst the Jackson Pollock of my mind, a clear, distinct picture. Part of it familiar, the other, foreign. It's Michelangelo's Pieta. There sits Mary, large hands, soft face. Looking down on what I know to be Christ after His crucifixion and descent from the cross. Sprawled across her lap, half naked, and limp. I imagine my finger tracing the cold marble. Every wrinkle in her shroud perfectly etched, every vein in her hand expanding and constricting with the beat of her heart. I trace down to the second figure. But wait. It's not Christ. It's me.
Blasphemy, a raspy voice cries.
No, says another, like a bell. I see Mary holding me, quieting my fears and I, finding remedy in her solace, curl closer to her chest. I hold this scene in my mind. I ignore the thrashing of negativity at my door. The cutting remarks, the uncertainty, the angst. Mother Mary comforts me... until, at last...
...sleep finds me.
Last night was hell. Except for my vision. I have neglected my morning pages and have ignored and given zero power to my word.
I'm feeling the effects. Little did I know this would be a complaining blog until I could "get it together" and actually start creating. I long to create and be apart of that which is bigger than myself or bigger than I know myself to be.
I'm working through the sludge, but I sense a clearing soon. I pray.
3 comments:
Let me first say that I haven't read your older posts, which I will because I long to hear more of your poetic, beautiful, and genuine words.
I'd like to challenge you and your statement that you have ignored and given zero power to your word. This may seem bold. And I'm not trying to dispute your feelings. I only want to say that this post is a victory, your victory. And it was powerful for me.
During Week Four of my "Artist's Way" journey I was in a very similar place.
I do hope we can talk more another time - my son is demanding my attention right now. I will visit again soon.
~Sara
Your emotions and love for your daughter is wonderful and the post reminded me of a strange night I had with Brody when he was 10 months or so. A beautiful post and beautiful words. I love the piece of art that came to your mind. It is one of those pieces that bring tears to your eyes.
I love to read what you write cause it goes against everything I would write about cause I'm worried about what is right or wrong. When its not about that, its about me worrying about all the stuff I need to get over and let me be me. The reason I have always loved this piece of art is because I've grown up with it and looked at it and thought of it and many different times in my life and even though I have thought many times that its sad. It makes me think about and look at Mary and her calm face. Her faith and peace and comfort and her knowledge that it'll be okay. I miss the art side of me and thank you for sharing.
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