Growing Pains · Meltdowns · Motherhood · Poetry

The Tale of Mother

Some relish The Storm;
The thunder, lightning and rain.

They find themselves thriving and shining,

In this most volatile 

Suspension of time.
For some, there is no greater fear,

Than the snap and crash, 

The spark and flash,

The fat, hot raindrops burning 

Into their skin like acid.
Me, I am undecided. 

Me, I am a lost soul, 

Wandering and wondering, 

Between the two. 
I neither fear the snap and crash,

Nor thrive on the spark and flash,

But find myself,

In those fattest, hottest raindrops,

Unwillingly transforming,

Like the rolling of The Storm,

Like the changing seasons of the Stormbearer Herself,

As if the raindrops really are acid,

And they painfully peel away

At an outdated layer of me

And make me new.
And often, those piercing raindrops

Merge with my own,

And I can no longer tell 

Which new layer owes itself

To which raincloud.
And as I stand 

And am enveloped by The Storm,

In its beauty and wrath and now-ness,

And honour that it’s raindrops are needed

To make the land grow

And to shed my skins 

And to clear the way for fresher air and wisdom amassed,

I cannot help but often wish

For an umbrella 

If just to stop the sting for which I am unprepared.

If just to stop me getting soaked through to my bones,

To my core.

To remain in my old skin

For one more cycle,

Until I feel ready,

Until I feel I can embrace this time 

Safe in the knowledge that I am 

Embracing it in the right way.

Just an umbrella.
But then I am at greater risk

Of being struck 

By the spark and flash, 

Which takes me longer to recover from

Than the harsh rejuvenation of the rain,

And in which case

I will be rejuvenated from the rain,

And my oldest skin dissolved 

Anyway, eventually.

Because these transformations

For the Stormbearer and me

Are not optional.

We do not find ourselves;

We are shown ourselves 

Kicking and screaming.


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