From Quarantine Queen, Mindful Mother, Domestic Dame, Goofy Goddess, Mama Magic, to: “SHUT THE FUCK UP EVERYONE, AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!”
Waves. Cycles. Spirals.
Patient. Present. Strong. Stable. Fluid. Fun.
Bitchy. Broken. Sensitive. Stuck. Wavering. Wondering…
When I rock the covid (the new lifesty, not the virus), I feel grounded and giving – a source of support. A resource of steadiness. A sorceress – alchemizing the situation. Bending the boundaries to tend with tenderness and trust. Generous. Gentle. Here to help.
But then I’m hit by a mega meteor of moody muck. It makes a crater – so deep. I feel nauseous. Nervous. Fear creeps in. I walk the edge of it, trying to balance on that thin ledge. And then it draws me inwardly – into its depths, or into my own. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which.
Here in this cocoon, we are grooving with Covid’s guidelines. Social distancing. Grateful to have each other. Grounded. Connected. Home.
I hug. And I soothe. And I hold space. I cook and I clean and I read stories. I homeschool. I say FUCK school! And still I do the school thing. And fight hard for free time – theirs, not mine.
But then sometimes I am cooked. Over cooked. So well done I’m burnt.
I yell, I don’t listen, I’m tougher than I tend to want to be.
Here, in my Covid Cocoon, I am burning in the acid of my imperfect motherhood.
Hard not to be hard on myself.
We’re making soup – my emotions and their emotions and his emotions… I chop some thoughts and add them in. I squeeze the liquid of my dreams out of the bottle they’re held in, and pour into the cauldron. I stir. I whisper witchy words. I cry. I cackle.
Cackling covid crone cracking codes. Caring. Counting crows. contemplating commitment.
Commitment to the transformation she must undergo inside the covid cocoon.
With the light of the moon, and the sun offering her power boons, she gives into the mucky mess.
I recollect my energies, and try to build something meaningful out of the pieces that scatter all over the cosmos with every wave of unworthiness that washes in. Shape something out of the liquid mess. Digested from within, the acid burns the parts that were vital organs. Inside the chrysalis, nothing stays the same. Reformation takes place.
Wings aren’t spread yet. Colors still unrecognized. Antenas and legs are not yet formed.
We’re still in this soup. And it’s messy. The process is slimy and dirty. Our every part undergoes major transfiguration. No part looks like it used to. And maybe it never will. Except that we will emerge with wings. And we will learn to fly. And we will lay eggs. And caterpillars will hatch. And they will eat the leaf of their birth. And they will eat like there’s no tomorrow. And the next day we will eat some more. And we will form a cocoon around ourselves. Again.
In the cocoon we are cooked inside the soup of our imperfections. Its acid burns. Our form melts. And a new form will emerge. But it isn’t ready yet.
It’s warm and safe in the cocoon. And it’s deeply agitating too. It’s not quiet. Quarantine quarrels are quite inescapable. And there’s nowhere to escape.
So in the landscape of this inner transformation, who are you becoming?
And when she emerges – wings, antenas, legs, and all – will you let her fly?