Feb 16, 2007
The bitter scent of myrrh wafts through the room
as sunlight floods in,
streaming through the mullioned panes.
I sit, adrift in thought, the heavy mantle of motherhood
shrinkwrapped 'round my brain,
containing all my stormcloud brooding in one shallow space,
forcing the mind's eye to concentrate, to pick apart the whole
into jagged fragments.
What will become of him, the one I birthed and suckled, guided with fierce love from a helpless ball of utter need
to this leggy little stranger, so like me yet so not,
cast from the concrete of my bones and blood but burdened with his own stubborn legacy of highstrung expectation,
his world so black and white and never blurred with tonal shading,
his eyes attuned to everything with merciless precision?
What can I do to ready him for the unfairness,
all the sly and secret serpents slithering soundlessly in the garden,
that bitter pill, betrayal, so often capsuled in
the sweetest pleasure?
I know his dreams, his hurts, his wants like I know my own,
yet cannot pave his pathway smooth.
He is like me that way, must fall and rise and stumble on,
the stones of indifference kicked aside or clambered 'round,
but not without some bruising.
Can I gift him with some small wisdom, a glass to help him see
life not as a destination but a journey to be savored,
not a vulgar outsized diamond to be captured
but a series of small jewels to be strung,
not an end but a beginning?
Love your work, I told him.
Love yourself too, for if you stand strong with what you create
without and within,
the world may not always or ever love you, but will respect
your strength and candor.
Sing loud your song, I said, regardless of the critics
who may scorn it.
Look in the mirror, love what you see.
If you do not you must examine carefully the bits and pieces
of your mind, your soul, your innermost desires
and embrace wholly what you find,
or polish and refine or discard that which displeases,
so that when you sit in the pale piercing light of consciousness
you recognize your truth and own it always.
I worry, toss and turn but know I can do no more for him
than give him my acceptance,
perhaps subtly, occasionally shaping this sweet clay
without disturbing his own being.
He will be who he is.
I want him to be who he is - not me, not anyone
but that immortal spark of spirit he embodies.
He will be who he is.
© 1998 RC deWinter
Sleep softly, beloved Eben...
December 26, 1987-February 3, 2007
Feb 16, 2007 3:01pm
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