Loss ~ What They Don’t Teach You in Mom School

It was nearly two years ago we first came to Syracuse; you, a senior on the cusp of perceived independence and a loss which would affect you for the rest of your live and me, a mother who had absolutely no idea how much loss my mother’s heart could sustain and continue beating.  Sitting among the hundreds of parents and prospective students in a room festooned with orange and blue, dotted with orange-attired upper classmen, and punctuated with a freakish round mascot referred to as Otto and defined as an Orangeman, whatever that is, I knew.  I knew you would be here.  As you leaned over and asked me “Mom, do I even own anything orange?”, I knew you would move a thousand miles away to learn more than I could teach you and pursue your dream,still in the process of being defined. I knew I would lose you and, because supportive and good mothers smile at this prospect, I smiled.  I truly believe I was happy in that moment. I was happy knowing my daughter had found the place she would grow immeasurably.  I was proud that she had worked hard and was well positioned to be accepted to the college of her dreams and, in turn, open new doors, doors neither she nor I even knew existed.  Sitting alone in my hotel room this morning, I think back to that crisp fall day and consider the events which awaited us, unwitting though we were.

I still remember the first moment I looked at you.  You had been born only moments before and the NICU nurse placed you, a burrito wrapped infant, in my arms.  Reluctantly making your entry into the world, you’d spent nearly four hours in the birth canal.  Alarmingly, you were born with the umbilical cord wrapped around your neck, blue, and limp.  I learned this, however, after the fact, after you had literally come to life under the care of the skilled nurse who stimulated your blood flow, gave you oxygen, and turned the purple blue of your skin to a rosy pink. I may have given you a place to grow, but that nurse gave you life and I am forever grateful to her.  I do not know her name however; for once she placed you in my arms my entire being was focused on you. You.  You were everything.  This morning, as I sip hot coffee from a hotel mug, you still are everything.

I spent the next two days in the hospital, hypothetically to rest and rejuvenate before returning home with my new baby girl.  Instead of resting though, I sat through the night in the dim lights of that hospital room looking at you.  I couldn’t stop looking. It was as if I was trying to memorize every feature of your face, imprinting your face in my brain I suppose. I have no explanation for it other than it felt right and there was nothing I wanted to do more than look at you.  Had I been given the choice between breathing and looking at you, I have no doubt I’d have chosen the latter.  You were beautiful.  You really were.  So many babies are born scrunched up, red, and bumpy, but you were beautiful.  In spite of the four hours in the birth canal, your head was perfectly shaped.  Your deep blue eyes, when you deemed to open them, had the appearance of eyes which were looking at angels just beyond my face.  Your hair, swept across your forehead, was so thick, dark, and sleek it gave the impression of black oil floating on water.  You were perfect.

It is ironic that I experience a sense of loss at the thought of your birth, but I do.  I’ve never been one who was particularly confident in my body or what it was capable of, but I had never been more confident as I was when you grew in my belly.  I knew my body was completely, utterly capable of doing exactly what it was doing.  Although many mothers are anxious during their pregnancies, I had no fear during mine with you.  I had never felt more able, more strong, or more secure in my ability to harbor your being as it grew into life.  I have no explanation for this, but it is an absolute truth for me.  It was after your birth, I became less confident.  I knew you were safe within my swollen belly. Once you were out in the world, though, I was far less confident.  Your birth was, in many ways, a loss of the blissful sense that my body was doing exactly what it had been born to do.  I was a good mother, but it was only your first nine months I knew by intuition.  The rest I had to learn and learn I did.

Since you came to Syracuse, I have found myself endlessly looking at you when you return home for one of your all too brief visits.  At first, I thought it strange that I found myself staring at my daughter, but I accepted it and continued staring, absorbing every changed nuance of you.  I simply couldn’t get enough of the image of you.

Last night, as I walked from your new sophomore year apartment to my car, I recalled that first moment you were placed in my arms and found myself fighting back tears. You see, I am still memorizing your face and lately I find it is changing faster than I can memorize it.  The symmetry between my instinctive need to memorize you when you were born and my need to memorize you now is not lost on me.  Both are as primal and, once again, were I to be given the choice between breathing and looking at you, I would choose the latter. Always.

You see, in ‘Mom school’, as I call it they don’t tell you about the many ways you can lose your child, but I believe we still know of them deep down.  I believe, on some level, we know that we will lose our children in phases; first steps, starting Kindergarten, making friends who can supplement your birth family and become your family of choice, realizing your mother doesn’t know everything, going to college and learning even more things your mom doesn’t know, and, in time, creating a home and family of your own.  I think in the moment you were placed in my arms, I knew all of this already.  I knew you were born to eventually go out into the world and make your own way.  True, they don’t teach this in ‘Mom school’, but I knew it all the same and the loss of you is eclipsed only by the joy of seeing you take your birthright and fly higher than you ever knew you could.  In losing you to your own life, I have gained even more in than I could have imagined. In this, my place as your mother is made complete.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

Double Quote ~ Liar, Liar

There are no secrets.' The thing smiled, showing a row of even, childlike teeth. 'None worth keeping. Only the ones you hide from yourself, which are the most damaging and hurtful of all. Truth is truth, and lie is lie. Tell yourself one's the other and all the world turns kilter. ~ David Hewson, Macbeth


Right or wrong we have all lied to ourselves. Often the desire to believe our own lies is born of fear or a desperation to avoid an unattractive truth. I used to unwittingly lie to myself all the time if only to keep some form peace in my heart and mind.  It was a survival instinct of sorts. Here's the thing though, on some level, I always knew my lies were lies so any peace I percieved was an illusion. Of greatest concern, however was that at some point, I came to believe my lies and accept them as truth. Again, it was survival. I didn't want to believe the less attractive side of me existed. I didn't want to look myself in the eye and see the flaws and dysfunctions because, in acknowledging their presence, I knew I'd have to do something about them. I just wasn't ready to face certain truths about myself.  In living this way, I was not only limiting myself, but also limiting the relationships I had with others.

In time, circumstances pushed me to face my truth, my flaws, my shadow side and, in turn, do something different than I ever has before. I came to realize in perpetuating the lies I had been telling myself for pretty much my whole life, I was impeding my growth. In lying to myself, I was choosing the illusion of peace over real peace. I realized I had to own up to my internal dishonesty, accept it, and move forward as well as I could at the time. In moving away from the lies and doing the work to stay rooted in truth, I found I was able to grow in a way I had not before.  Over time it became easier to face my own truth, attractive or not. 

To have given myself the gift of self-honesty has been life changing. I have not only come to be better able to trust myself and my instincts, but also discern truth and lies in the world at large. In this, I find that I am better able to be of service to others, to distance myself from unhealthy relationships and situations, and embrace what is a far friendlier universe than I ever could have realized before. ~ Mk Michaels

Light

It's always the folks with bad energy talking about they want to be surrounded by positive folks. Yeah and bugs are attracted to light too. ~ Dï Thomas

Having been raised by less than positive parents, I have worked hard over the years to cultivate a happy outlook on life and expect the best of any given situation.  Some would say this is innate in me; others would call it a developed skill.  Nature vs. nurture matters not, for today I am an optimist.  I can find the silver lining in a stinking pit of despair and make lemonade with the most rotten of lemons.  That said there are times when I have to admit defeat and create distance from and reinforce boundaries between those who would dim my light were I to allow the negativity they carry about creep into my world. Although creating distance and reinforcing boundaries may not seem the friendliest of actions, these can almost always be done with kindness and grace. It is the place I start at least, for the world needs more of both.  Protect your light for it is your greatest asset. ~ Mk Michaels

Feral

 

I have always had an affinity for feral cats,

the more feral the better, really.
Something about the fear in their eyes
spoke to the deepest parts of my soul.
Perhaps I presumed
I could make their lives
a bit easier.
Being a nurturer at heart,
it came so naturally
to love them completely,
including the unlovable parts.
 
I imagined I could make
these feral cats
a bit more gentle
and, maybe, just maybe
tame them in the same way
the Little Prince
tamed his Fox
so wheat fields
would suddenly have meaning,
except my hair is not golden
and it was not a fox
I last attempted to tame.
 
My most recent attempt

will be my last,
for of all I have helped, cared for,

and loved,
that one,
the last one,
eviscerated me….when I least expected it.
Granted, I wasn’t at my best at the outset;
going into this particular
feral feline rescue,
my heart was already road weary.
I was fatigued, not on my game,
and less watchful than usual.
Had I been whole, I believe
I would have seen the signs earlier and
avoided the worst of the damage that came my way.
 
That last untamed cat
lulled me into a sense of safety.
for a time.
She had my whole being in the palm of her hand,
my heart utterly hers.
Likewise,
she had nestled into the comfort
of my chest, my belly, my arms
her claws sheathed
and her volatile temper
tucked away.
There was a sense of calm and knowing,
but only for a while
for those temporarily tamed,
return to the wild.
It is only a matter of time.
This one,
the last one,
went feral again without warning.

Then again, once feral, always feral, right?

Having cultivated impermanent trust with other wild felines,

I should have known better.
 
I was already open, raw, and defenseless
but this did not deter her first attack;
there were many which followed.
I had curled into her in the same way she had curled into me,
so I never saw it coming.
As was our routine, she came calling late at night
to rest or feed on the bounty of my care before retiring,
but instead of the usual
curling and unfurling of dark fur against my skin,
razor teeth sunk deeply into my shoulder,
one of several places she used to rest her frightened and fatigued head.
Terrified, she clawed her way out of my heart leaving
me, stunned and hemorrhaging in a crumpled heap,
watching lifeblood, hers and mine, trickle
down my breasts,
over the curve of my belly,
and pool between my thighs.
 
This cat,
the very last feral
I will ever invite into my warm and welcoming world,
bit the hand that fed her,
cruelly clawed her way free,
and now, I suspect,
feels more lost than ever before.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you. ~ Kahlil Gibran

I first heard Kahlil Gibran’s 'On Children' long before I had children. They were sung by two dear friends, Joyce and Jacque, who as singers and a songwriting duo created some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.  Although they did not write On Children, their rendition of the piece set to music resonated in my heart long ago and has remained there to this day.  These words, still heard in my head and heart in Joyce’ and Jacque’s voices, have defined how I parent.  As the mother of two children, a daughter (19 years old) and a son (nearly 15 years old), I am so incredibly proud of the people they are and that they are completely comfortable finding their own way, even if it is not my way. 

It has not always been easy to strike the balance between empowering my kids and keeping them safe; sometimes we have had clashes between their desire to be authentically themselves and my own fears for what their choices might bring into their lives, but we always found a good middle ground.  By and large, they have made really good choices and, in the course of this, they have become independent, kind, hard working, and confident young adults.  We have been through a lot together, my children and me, and there is no doubt we will go through more of this life being individuals who are entirely connected.  ~ Mk Michaels

Playing House

Ever since I was a child,

I loved playing house
in so many different ways.
 
Barbie was a big deal, of course.
From the Barbie camper
under my 8^th Christmas tree
to the plastic Barbie dream house
Santa brought my sister
(and I envied)
the picture perfect pink
idea of 'Home'
was imprinted in my heart
complete with picket fences,
keeping the good in and the bad out.

Although not a house specifically,

as a pre-teen I built forts along the creek
which ran behind our house.
My sister and friends swung across the creek
on the thick vine draped
alongside our homemade Batcave.
In the thick, buggy heat of
the South Carolina summers
we played Batman.
Bobby and Johnny were Batman and Robin, respectively.
My younger sister got to be Batgirl.
Being the oldest, I was Batwoman…
although at the time, I wasn’t convinced
Batwoman was a real super hero.
Eddie, the ‘poor’ kid from down the street
was always the willing bad guy
We chased him whether he was the Joker, Riddler, or Penguin.
Eddie drew the line at playing Catwoman.
I had such a crush on Eddie and
recall one summer he and I pretended
we were dating.
Batwoman and the Joker, an unlikely pair,
but we made it work
for a summer.
 
As I grew older, I made new homes.
 
In my late teens and early twenties,
my dorm room was a sight to behold
and a place for friends to gather.
I was the only one who color coordinated
the fold out couch, in case I had guests,
with the ribbon festooned grape vine wreaths
hung on the walls
alongside the Georgia O’Keefe prints
beneath the stenciled border
I had painstakingly painted
at the beginning of the school year.
A wicker rocker with a
pink, white, and periwinkle cushion,
so everything would coordinate,
rounded out the décor.
Had there been a tour of dorm rooms,
there is no doubt mine would have been on it.

In my mid-twenties, I met a woman I loved

and together we created a home
on our shoestring budget.
We were more broke than broke
and often laughed that we were too poor to use the full word;
so we would stop at ‘po’…
some weeks we were simply ‘p’
but we laughed often
and created a home with the hodge-podge
of furniture we brought together.
The lack of coordination troubled me,
but I made the best of it
and creatively decorated our home
often dragging home treasures found
in other people’s curbside discards.
It worked and, occasionally, I will
come across a knick knack from that time
and smile.
 
Happiness has a way of fading in the face
of reality, fatigue, and complacence
so in my forties I left and ventured out on my own.
In this, I created yet another home.
Colors bursting everywhere,
no two rooms the same,
warm and welcoming,
filled with trusted friends, laughter, and love
it became my nest, my haven, my home but
for more than a decade
in spite of inviting others to share my heart
none were deemed fit or chose to remain.

Until you came along in my fifties.

Our early conversations were filled

with hedges;
     If…
     Maybe…
     Some day…
     Perhaps…
Quickly though, the hedges were trimmed
and eventually, eliminated.
 
Conversations come more easily now;
     When we...
     We will…
     Let us…
     I do…
The walls are beginning to tumble down,
The demolition of impediments has started
and I realize,
I am no longer playing.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

Unprecedented

“I don’t know what to do with you”,

I say, my brow furrowed
in disbelief.
Kindness
has never coincided
with chemistry.
Passion
has always been accompanied by
poison
in one form or another.

 

Having guzzled more than my
fair share of bottles labeled
‘Drink Me’
I came to believe poison was a
necessary evil
to experience the
power I desired.
 
Apparently, I was mistaken.

 

You,
a combination between
the most tender of whispers and
a force of nature,
rocked my world
while cradling my bruised heart.
Never have I been so glad to have been
wrong.

 

I am reborn
and find my heart
dancing with abandon
to an unfamiliar
yet entirely welcome
beat.
 
You are …
     unexpected
     unprecedented
     and, yes,
     unnerving in moments,
but only in moments.
for in all the other minutes
in our Hours together,
I am…
     unbridled,
     unbruised,
     and, yes,
     unrelentingly
falling into your
precedent.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015