Animals and Angels
Written by Kelly on November 21st, 2009Kierkegaard said, “Man’s anxiety is a function of his ambiguity, and his complete powerlessness to overcome that ambiguity.”
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When we got married, I told David I did not want to have children. Just the thought of another person demanding space inside my body made me resentful. He nodded his head as if he was in agreement. My husband, who is as sturdy as a spreadsheet of checks and balances, romanticizes the risks he took in marrying me. I knew you would come around to wanting babies. He told me this once in hindsight, as he watched me rock our firstborn soft to sleep. But, what if I hadn’t? I was outraged at his stubborn patriarchy. In that moment, my husband is a complete mystery to me.
For a long time, I did not want to be a mother, and then I did. That desire grew enormous like a tumor in my body. I ate and breathed and existed for years only to serve this biological function. Time and again, I was met with medical resistance. I convinced myself that I was cursed. I never should have said I did not want to have babies. Who would have thought that God would listen to an atheist. That I believe my children are miracles makes me flawed and beautiful.
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Did I ever tell you about the time I made a brazen pass at a famous poet? I did. Every time I read his words, I felt like I was burning. I convinced myself that I was looking for sex, but really it was a strange sort of validation. If he would only bend my legs above my head and make a sonnet of lust out of my body, I believed I could learn to have respect for my own words. My prose the central nervous system, I just wanted the reflex that comes from touching. Rejection can be a satisfying thing when it forces you to come face to face with who you really are. I am not an animal or an angel. That may be the most difficult thing to reckon.
We are all this state of in-between, the mechanism of self-feeding, like magpies attracted to things that sparkle, broken mirrors we can still see our own images in.
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My son comes into the bedroom this morning and finds me quietly crying.
J: What’s wrong, Momma?
Me: I’ve been reading a book and it made me sad.
J: Let me see. (He takes the book from my hands.) Is it all sad, Momma?
Me: No baby, not all parts are sad. Some parts are sad, and some parts are beautiful.
J: Show me, Momma. Show me the sad parts.
I read to my son from Impossible Motherhood by Irene Vilar. She writes about the birth of her daughter after choosing to have 15 abortions. She says, I don’t want you to ever succumb to the dismembered life of a false self. Your fate depends, a great deal, on me. Writing this down. I read these words to my son who can’t possibly understand them. He smiles at me.
J: Sometimes I get sad too, Momma.
Me: I know, baby. What should we do with our sadness?
J: I think we should spit it out of our mouths.
My three-year old son is a poet, a genius, a sage, and my beautiful little boy.
Me: Why don’t you spit your sadness in my hand? Let Momma see it.
(J spits.)
Me: Oh, look at your sadness baby boy. It is heavy in my hand. What color do you think it is?
J: (Laughing) It is purple Momma, like a shadow.
Me: And green like a Monster under the bed.
J: Yes. Momma. Just like that.
Me: I think I am going to eat it up.
(I mock putting my hand to my mouth. J stays me.)
J: No, Momma. Don’t eat it. We should throw it away. We should take your sad and my sad and we should just blow them away.
Yes. This is it exactly. Love and sex and death and hope and the constant mining of myself to write it down, to get it down, to shape this living with it, it all just waits suspended by the shape of a beautiful boy. He sits next to me on the bed. We cup our palms against our mouths. Our lips form tiny circles. We rise up our hands. We inhale deeply. Together, we gently blow
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That was simply beautiful.
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Your kid is awesome.
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The only part I disagree with is when you said “Some parts are sad, and some parts are beautiful.”
You show, in your own writings, that sad stuff IS beautiful.
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I love how your writing is always so eloquent and beautiful.
I also love the quote at the top of the page. I’m going to have to send it to someone I have a crush on for Christmas.
I hope you have a wonderful Holiday!
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I wish I could remember what they say. I know things lovely like this come out, but I rarely remember to get to them..
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Ah, my. You are beautiful.
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Again, thank you. The beauty you express through your words…leaves me without words.
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Wow! You blew me away. I’m always in awe how powerful your words can be.
Your son is wonderful
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Every time I read your pages, I think – “not ordinary, not ordinary at all” – thanks as always for the beauty you share…
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Oh, yummy. Perfect for a winter night.
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I think I am going to make that into some sort of ritual, spitting and blowing away my sadness… Let you know how it works out.
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You make me ashamed to call myself a blogger.
Oh my word, this is gorgeous.
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You are amazing. I wish I could persuade you to join our group of writers on The Inferno.
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Blow life out into the world! A great testament for co-creation! Thanks for a touch of beauty.
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seriously. i can’t even come up with words to comment any more. your son is a special boy, indeed. the two of you make the most beautiful statements.
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I will think of this. Your son is a genius. If only we as adults could think of such simple things. Thank you.
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There are times when sage wisdom appears from unexpected sources. There is no reason why someone of three might not have something to teach us … as you & I have both discovered.
Recently I took a walk with my nephew. Have a look if you have the time.
http://thegeneralwhirl.blogspot.com/2009/09/my-butterfly-hunter.html
It’s not the same … I know that. But what we have in common is perhaps the ability to listen with an open heart. xx Jos
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I had a moment of intense fear around my older son last week and it made me realize just how fragile he is, how delicate life is.