today: poeming on the friday before mother's day
seems to be a day for resting.
will be a day to recover.
is already a day listening to music
regathering my auditory sanity.
can be blank or filled, my choice.
leads up to the bittersweet weekend
(mother's day smacks loss moms).
and for all that it is and can be and will be
here I am, poeming, waiting, remembering
waiting. remembering. standing still.
writing it all out, in this moment.
Mother's Day, which is actually my favorite of "holidays" (you know, the made up ones) is still a bittersweet day for me. I remember my two waterbabies on this day. I make space in my heart for my friends who have lost children or who may still be trying to have children. I am keenly aware of being a loss mom on the fringe; miscarriage and two years of infertility are nothing in the larger scheme of things. But this is my life and I can only experience what I have experienced. And so I own my experience while acknowledging other experiences.
And part of my experience is so very, very sweet: I gave birth to my living, breathing, awesome child on Mother's Day 2006. Every year I relive this experience, remembering the joyous moment when I first met Remy.
And so I hold the space for the triumph and the pain.
Each year, I try to spend Mother's Day in nature somewhere (when we lived in Alabama, we often went inner tubing on the River Styx). This year the beach is calling me. It won't be a "beach day" as most people think of it, but I am from Northern California, so it will be perfect to me. I am looking forward to the salt and the sand. (Or not, if we have to change our plans. I am flexible.)
Right now, I'm planning on taking my tripod and my new remote shutter release and getting some family photos. I don't want to be all dictorial about it, but it'd be nice to have some new photos of all of us, together. That's my Mother's Day wish. (I really wish all our families were here to join us, but that's not in my power.)