Love Songs to the Ladies: The Summer Mother
She swells. Burgeons. Opens. Brings forth. She is not so much labor as the result of it. The fruit. The fruition. The wide, wobbling balance point between ripe and over-ripe, between sweetness and cloying. The stretched-smooth curve of the peach before the skin starts to split.
She is covered in the filth of the battle. Or what those call filth, who are afraid of costs, and of paying them. New things are not laid gently in our arms, clean and wrapped, contained, packaged. They come through us, messy, uncontrollable and wailing. They break us open with their passage. Victory looks like panting, looks like bruising, looks like blood and sweat and tear-tracks. Nothing about attainment is pretty. That thing you wanted? You ripped it out of the dirt with your bare hands. You wrestled it into existence. In so doing you shaped it, and it shaped you.
She is Her own midwife. She nurtured the seed and She Herself drew it forth. She holds it to the mirror of Her own heart, speaks to Herself-that-was: This is what your dream looks like. This is what you bought, at the cost of every other purchase. She does not ask, was it worth it? Even She does not dare.
And is She glory, or is She terror, you ask? What does it mean, to have manifested your Will? And what will this thing you have manifested wreak on the world? You have brought something into existence that would not exist without your hubris, your desire. You have altered the Universe. And you are responsible for what you have done.
She is the giddy apex of the cycle. Through Her eyes you see it all: the grueling climb behind you, the dark descent to come. Through Her body you breathe in, fill to bursting. Pregnant, again, already, because you are never not birthing something. She is the moment between I did it and Now what? Hold Her as long as you’re able, with your sticky fingers, with your quivering, half-drunk arms. She is quicksilver, for all of Her round, gravid abundance. She’ll slip through your fingers so fast…
She manifests. Grasp greedily, and let go. Welcome Summer.
This post was written by Laurie Dietrich
Tagged with: seasons