Mothering is not a Poem

I’m preparing to go off all social media for I don’t know how long, and before I do I want to offer this reflection on Mother’s Day.

Our bodies spend so much time being talked over; birthing bodies, children’s bodies, sexual bodies, specialized bodies, bodies that are told and shown that they aren’t loved, bodies that are violated, bodies that find freedom and safety through patchwork and political education and someone’s tenderness with them.

Mothering happens in bodies. It happens by single fathers and steady grandmothers; by mothers who weren’t asked what they needed how ready they were or if they had support around them; by mothers who wound and mothers who wish to be a balm; by no one and by mind’s eyes; earth side and behind fluttering eyelids connected mysteriously to beings once here; by villages of friends and villages walked away from; by older and younger siblings; by strangers, as familiar and ignored narratives.

Our bodies hold questions and reflections on nurturing that ache for our attention and our respect. Someone’s body has been mothering’s casualty. Someone’s child has been neglected. Someone’s village has ransomed their trust in them for a reward for surveillance and criminalization. Someone’s body swallows their needs down reflexively. Someone’s body watches and listens as origins of contexts fulfill their deeper roots.

Cherish the bodies that have been your life sources.

Cherish the chosen collection of people that care for you.

Pause when that cherishing is eclipsed by whatever is orbiting.

Notice more than you want to, not only for your body, but for someone’s.

There is a lot here.