Moderated Heart

I awoke this morning with the lines of a favorite Pablo Neruda poem banging around inside my brain. It seems that I, too, am tired of being a wo-man. I feel as though I am too much of this world of brick and stone, bell schedules and paychecks, words and bruises. I'm tired of the uncertainty and the anxiety that grip me as I navigate trying to be a good mother, daughter, sister, friend, teacher, wife.

What I would like to do is scoop up my babies and take them somewhere wild. Here would be good. If only we could live unscripted for awhile. Maybe then, I would rediscover a sense of myself that seems missing. Misplaced somehow. I know a lot of my disconnect has to do with the fact that I am, yet again, fighting with my mother.

She comes to my house each morning to care for the children. We politely ignore each other. If we must speak, it is in short abrupt bursts, like a machine-gun staccato. Our words punctuate the air with the in-authencticity of everything said, all that is left unsaid.

Driving to work this morning, I was struck by the thought that this might be the moment. You know. The one you look back upon years later and realize how it changed everything for you and someone you loved. Is this the moment of fracture, the un-repairable rift?

It might be. I am certain that I will never walk away from my family. Never deprive my children of their grandparent's attention or love, but I need to make a change. I can not continue to hurt the way I do.

I think what it comes down to is this. When it comes to my parents, especially my mother, I need to protect myself better, love a little less, do not expect more than she is able to give. I have to be contented. It's not the worst thing in the world to moderate the heart. Mostly, I just need to validate myself, instead of looking to them. To her.

I'm 32 years old. I'd say it's about time.