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July 16, 2009
Letter #2
Dear Little One,
In the past few weeks you have started moving around a lot- and hiccuping! Perhaps my hormones are raging even more than ever, or maybe it's just me preparing to really become a mother, but every time I feel you move little daydreams of who you might be take over my brain. I can't seem to capture the incredible joy that I have been feeling- that chest squeezing, tear inducing rush of excitement and pride- all in anticipation of this new being made solely by myself and your father. It is just so...overwhelmingly wonderful.
Recently, during one of our talks about babies and parenthood, my mother told me that to this day she considers my birth one of her greatest accomplishments. I think I probably would have rolled my eyes at this at any other time except for now, partly because I am a sarcastic person but mostly because I would have wondered how something so natural could rank higher than other life achievements. But now I understand the statement completely (and I am sure that once you are here, once I have given birth to you, it will make more sense than ever).
Ten years ago I was floundering. I had no idea who I was or where I was going. I considered myself fragile, both mentally and physically. It was around this time that a former professor and good friend gave me this poem by Louise Gluck. I read it over and over again. In many ways, it became a mantra for putting my adult life together (for the first time and then, a few years later, from what seemed like scratch once more).
Yesterday I opened up Vita Nova again and re-read "Nest." For the first time, I felt as though my life had reached the end of the poem. As I type this, I am sniffling a bit and smiling. Little One, I see you as the culmination of the first piece of my life- and the beginning of sometime entirely new.
One day I will give this poem to you. I will tell you about my mother's words and the wise advice of an old friend. And some day, probably longer down the road, you will understand, too.
Poem after the jump.
##
Nest
A bird was making its nest.
In the dream, I watched it closely:
in my life, I was trying to be
a witness not a theorist.
The place you begin doesn't determine
the place you end: the bird
took what it found in the yard,
its base materials, nervously
scanning the bare yard in early spring;
in debris by the south wall pushing
a few twigs with its beak.
Image
of loneliness: the small creature
coming up with nothing. Then
dry twigs. Carrying, one by one,
the twigs to the hideout.
Which is all it was then,
It took what there was:
the available material. Spirit
wasn't enough.
And then it wove like the first Penelope
but toward a different end.
How did it weave? It weaved,
carefully but hopelessly, the few twigs
with any suppleness, any flexibility,
choosing these over the brittle, the recalcitrant.
Early spring, late desolation.
The bird circled the bare yard making
efforts to survive
on what remained to it.
It had its task:
to imagine the future. Steadily flying around,
patiently bearing small twigs to the solitude
of the exposed tree in the steady coldness
of the outside world.
I had nothing to built with.
It was winter: I couldn't imagine
anything but the past. I couldn't even
imagine the past, if it came to that.
And I didn't know how I came here.
Everyone else much farther along.
I was back at the beginning
at a time in life we can't remember beginnings.
The bird
collected twigs in the apple tree, relating
each addition to existing mass.
But when was there suddenly mass?
It took what it found after the others
we finished.
The same mateirals-- why should it matter
to be finished last? The same materials, the same
limited good. Brown twigs,
broken and fallen. And in one,
a length of yellow wool.
Then it was spring and I was inexplicably happy.
I knew where I was: on Broadway with my bag of groceries.
Spring fruit in the stores: first
cherries at Formaggio. Forsythia
beginning.
First I was at peace.
Then I was contented, satisfied.
And then flashes of joy.
And the season changed-- for all of us,
of course.
And as I peered out my mind grew sharper.
And I remember accurately
the sequence of my responses,
my eyes fixing on each thing
from the shelter of the hidden self:
first, I love it.
Then, I can use it.
~ Louise Gluck, Vita Nova
Posted by callalillie at July 16, 2009 7:08 AM | Baby
, Introspect
I love the poem.
And what your mom said. I agree to the T.
I saw this quote this morning, and I thought of similar things.
"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." – Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh
You will be a whole new person soon :)
Posted by: Asli Tur at July 16, 2009 9:20 AM
Beautiful post...takes me back to how I felt awaiting the birth of my daughter. There's just no other feeling like it, and it's often hard to even put into words.
As an aside, Sylvia Plath wrote some of the most beautiful poetry about motherhood and maternity that I've ever come across. I still can't make it through "Three Women" or "By Candlelight" without becoming a teary mess.
Posted by: kim at July 16, 2009 7:36 PM
