Here is a digression from the regular mess of mothering:
Horses, magic, scrapes, hunger, sadness, situations with building blocks.
But within it all a becoming of one experience,
Being brought together at this time in this space.
For what? For nothing other than becoming.
Becoming: loveliness, embodiment, thinking of others in order to communicate well
In order to dance, to commune
Coaslesced.
And the water droplets run together as they make their way down the glass - sand and heat - and the light that passes through them creates colours.
Why does a water drop remind me of a mothers arm cradling a babe?
The pointed neck, the hammock limbs
The tesselation of trust and tears
A new drop, a new mother
As common as sand on the shore.
Is the mother the air and the baby the water?
Is the baby the mother with a little hydrogen mixed in?
Comments