But, it’s really like a little pet chaos.
No synchronistic external events, that ‘prove’ we are really experiencing something. No. It’s like I am melting away from the world. The Centre is supposed to be where we find Balance. Either I am already there or Balance makes me feel itchy, wanting and cold, with that old restlessness like a tiny constant wind blowing in my ear.
Well? What is it?
I have come to the end of my first year in the medicine spiral of my ancestors. We come to the end at the Centre. We come to our end at the centre.
Since I came home from our weekend I have been flirting with overwhelm. I feel it lapping at the sides of my boat. It makes me want to go to bed and not get up anymore. Just sleep it all off, the bed is warm and soft.
My dream themes are about famous people, everyday life and pipelines. Those damned pipelines will be the end of us.
I was hoping for a little reprieve. I was hoping for a feeling of completing, of sorting it all out under the Hat, figuring out which house I go into. But no, in the centre I just get resistance. I get squirmy. Antsy.
Funny thing is I feel much better than I have in a long time. I feel more relaxed with people. I can keep the frothy edges of wide-eyed panic at bay now, barely lifting a finger. I feel at ease in my body and once again I find myself able to look people in the eye (it’s been years). So – it’s not you, you crazy nutters out to get me. It’s … something else.
It’s like, travel-lust. I want to be away, in a forest in a little hut with a wood stove and a creek near by. I want to draw and paint and write a novel, and then a memoire. I want to sing sing sing the spirits in and out again, every day with the sunrise. I want long silences. I want to run for miles through trails. I want to be left alone.
I want to be left alone.
One thing about being a mom (un-needed to add a preface here about how much I worship my child), is that one is never again alone. And, well, sometimes I weep for this. Not that I can never havealone time, because I do carve that out, I have to or I’ll lose my shit, but, never actually being alone in the world again. Never being set adrift on the tides, never jumping in with two feet, never throwing caution to the wind, in fact being a mom means we must be ever-so cautious. We must be safe and secure and have schedules and make meetings and be on time for things and go to bed early and make cards for teachers and cookies for bake-sales and attend all the family gatherings. We must show up. Participate. Be solid, grounded, present and accounted for.
These things make my blood curdle. In fact, in the beginning they were distasteful, even repulsive to me. Me? Bake cookies? Are you out of your #$%$!! mind?
I am introverted, fairy-land, wishing-well material. I dream of being on a pea-green boat with the owl and the pussy cat. I dream of living in a house up on stilts 100 feet in the air, where you have to hold your dinner plate in your lap or it will slide off the table whenever the wind blows. I dream of blue houses in dark forests that have trap-doors in the floor leading to the Underworld, where the triple-goddess asks me, “What are you waiting for?” and there’s Jaguar prowling the outskirts, or Tiger on the snowy hill chasing us through the forest on skis, or the dystopian city that is built into the side of a cliff so high we can barely see the ocean below, or the dapper man in the coat and tails, with the head of a cat with purple eyes.
I dream, of getting lost. So lost that I can’t find myself. In a far away city where I know no-one. On a beach that goes for miles. In a pub on the corner. In a museum by the edge of the sea. At the top of a pyramid. In a cave covered in paintings drawn by some ancient hand. Somewhere. Anywhere where no one is waiting for me to come home.
When I was younger I used to do this: leave my house and walk. Just walk with no direction in mind. Let the wind carry me to my next destination. These are some of my happiest memories – being fully immersed in life.
I love it all though. Being a mom. Making the cards, baking the cookies, showing up for (his) life. It been fascinating to watch myself take it all on. I wouldn’t give it back or change anything. I have learned what I am capable of, I have been shattered into a million tiny pieces and then put back together again. And ultimately I have grown-up. And fuck did I ever need to grow up!
Yes, I am grateful every day for being a mom.
But I think sometimes that it’s against my nature.
And that is where I have come to, in the Centre where we are supposed to find balance. More like find out what’s out of balance. I am so out of balance I am sea sick, tossing my cookies over the handrail.
You feel me?
The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear 1812
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey,
and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married;
too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.