a mother is a many-bodied thing::

on shifting & uprooting & reshaping

So much has happened over the past year and a half. I keep trying to update you (who is you/is anybody really there?) and failing, failing, abandoning ship.

A friend prompted / dared/ me to return here. And so I’m trying. For some reason it’s been difficult. I’m not sure why it’s so hard to remember who I’m speaking to (you?) even harder to remember who is speaking (who, who)——

image of may flower moon over the atlantic sea, obviously

I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a shapeshifter. I have a highly mutable constitution (sag sun, virgo moon) rendering me open open open. I’m open to so much. Easily able to compute and swim into another person’s value system. Empathize with where they came from, how they were raised. An ordinary appearance coupled with a gentle energy allows me to go rather undetected when I walk into a room. It is a subtle superpower I have learned to treasure. One that comes with the potential danger of occasionally forgetting where I myself stand, of forgetting who exactly this Self is.

Some would say this makes me a prime cult candidate. Some would say good beginners mind. Others would say empty vessel. And I say; who, who are we even talking about? I carry within me so many sheaths of self. I am having a hard time, lately, pinning my personess down.

I’m not unique: se are all composed of a constellation of selves. This not a new concept, the self and its many costumes, its infinite possibilities. The multitudes we all contain etc.

Sometimes my I feels integrated, embodied, calm.

Sometimes I am only a mosaic of fear and desire. Of moon tides and habitual needs. Of faith and grief and fragmented dreams.

Sometimes I get stuck inside of one sheath of self and the rest of my skeins bury themselves within some dimension of subconscious, calling out from beyond the veil. And often the one that takes priority these days is the archetype of Mother. How could it not be? With two little beings so dependent on me remembering and inhabiting that role. It is a role I cannot shake, nor would I want to.

Except for sometimes. Sometimes I wish to put it, if not on pause, then on the back burner for a few hours, or a few days, or a year, so I can squirrel myself away into the woods like a traditional male author, unneeded, unbothered; or run into the desert nude for a rave I never got around to before I became this version of me. Not that I cant be that now, only freedom is different when you’re a mother. I don’t care what anybody says. There’s no fully letting go of the self now. Of this reality. Not with them here, requiring my whole essence, my whole attention, so much of each day and night.

ever searching for treasure

Perhaps it will change as they age. But with their aging, comes my own. Whatever that will hold in relation to my sense of freedom is a mystery. For now I am aware I have swapped something out. And its okay. It’s good and it’s hard. And it’s beautiful.

Over the past year and a half, since I’ve echoed out into this space, so much has shifted. In the world and in my own life. I had my second child, another son, impossibly beautiful, calm and confident, contemplative with fiery undertones of a good competitive sparkle. He points and runs straight into the ocean, into the woods, down the deck stairs, into the refrigerator

His arrival into our family has added nothing but delight. Not a note of jealousy from his older brother, but from the start the chords of absolute camaraderie. And for that, I exist in gratitude. To see these two grow their connection and shared sense of humor has become a cornerstone of my purpose. My husband and I have shifted identities together: going from young parents with what felt like this experiment of a child, an inside joke almost, to something more serious, more tangible. With the second kid we somehow arrived into reality. We shifted into a family.

ever searching for snacks

After 12+ years in Colorado, we moved across the country back to Baltimore, our place of origin. The return to the village. To grandparents and cousins and a familiar network of support. To the blueprint we grew out of, to a plethora of good and not so good memories, parking lots we used to get drunk in, fields we lost championships in.

Every time I walk into a coffee shop or grocery store or bar and see a strangely familiar face—was it an old teacher or the parent of a sibling’s friend—I feel like I am in a lucid dream. Whose identity does that face belong to again? And which face is mine self stitched now? Whose history, whose destiny, whose memory, who who—

The reality of this move scared the shit out of me and also magnetized me forth. The odd sense of vertigo that came with the decision; will we won’t we turn into our parents. Will we won’t we forget who we became, who we came to evolve into after all these years out there in the majestic mountains of Colorado, chasing songs, living on altitude and metric utterances, having a high time, living the good life.

I am back here in the very soil I was propagated in. But the roots have been disrupted, replanted. And though I am here again, I know I am something new too somehow. Aged, evolved, returned. It’s been just about a year now, and it is clear the choice we made was the right one. There is something about seeing children with their grandparents day in and day out, the treasure of multigenerational family, of interdependence, that feels like we’ve unearthed the oldest secret.

Some Personal Updates:

1) I have not been teaching here in Baltimore, though I do hope to return to that in the near future. I have been, very happily & greedily focusing on a writing project that originated fifteen years ago while I was in college. It’s fantastical fiction. A trilogy. Slowly but surely I am fumbling around the landscape of plotlines and character building. Hope to share more soon.

2) Little Door Blessings:

I have been composing customized blessings / poems for important ceremonies or big life events over the past decade, for friends and family, weddings and funerals, big birthdays, baby namings. I am in the process of alchemizing this passion into a little business, so I can offer it out to more folks. A website is forthcoming, but I mention it here because each is a considerable process, so if you have something coming down the pike and this is of interest, you can reach out to me directly for more info :)

2)

The Mothers Grimm

Check out our new substack~~~~!

It’s a collaboration with artists Jenni Ashby & Marie Conlan that grew out of years of a shared google doc, unto which we shared “Glimpses” of our journey into and through the portal of motherhood. The real document is something like a mutual journal? A chorus of mamas lamenting and adoring and despising and recounting and regaling and complaining and complaining and complaining and counting blessings and venting and hoping and disclosing tidbits of disjointed moments of our journey with each other.

The reality of this project has been potent for us. We wanted to invite others in somehow, so decided to make (what else) a substack and cull glimpses through different themes each week—this week the theme was *shapeshifter*.

Check it out @

The Mothers Grimm

and subscribe if up your alley. Maybe submit a glimpse of your own.

With lots of love;

G

ps:

though i’ve been focusing on fiction more this year (both reading and writing) and largely taking a hiatus from poetry, over the past few months Alice Notely’s books were leaping from the shelves into my dreams.

I’ve been carrying Alette and Small Houses around with me like slim talismans, submerging within them here and there.

I was shaken to hear about her passing the other day. She has been so much alive in my heart this spring. Fly on, Alice. I know you weren’t afraid.