I am carrying a boy beneath my heart.
In coming to realize more and more that I am responsible for another life – in realizing that I will be his first experience of “love,” for better and for worse – I want to empty my heart and my body of every knot of unforgiveness, resentment, and hatred. Or, at least, I want to want that.
I will be my boy’s first experience of home, of love, of beauty, of woman. His first place of repose and acceptance. My feelings toward every man of significance in my life will some how, some way color my interactions with my son – if not at first, then eventually, in myriad idiosyncratic ways. Now is the time to examine these feelings, conclusions, and convictions; to beg to know what is true in my concept of Man and what is false or harmful.
Surely, sometimes the truth is painful: men hurt women, women hurt men, all of us thrash around like the bull in a china shop. But however painful the truth of Man & Woman may be, the truth is not destructive, stifling, or calculating. It is clear-eyed, expansive, red-blooded, agile. It is not a friend of the fickle subterfuge that sits in a corner, arms crossed possessively over an increasingly frozen heart.
What is more tragic than a mother with a cold, distant heart? What is more monstrous than a mother with an insatiable, possessive heart?
Not one of us can untangle ourselves from our mother, not one of us can fathom her influence as “the starting point.” Of this I am keenly aware.
Woman! All she has ever wanted is to be loved and set free. What devastating cages we begin to build when we are small, from the first moment we see indifference, lust, or amusement in the eyes of a man. We adhere with devotion to a pattern of gridlock from such a young age, without ever stopping to ask, “But is it true?” We thwart every honest attempt that comes our way, subconsciously accepting the bars (that is, the disappointment) that will surely follow every expression of “love”, to the point of retreating into the cell of our own making: only to then throw ourselves at the four walls surrounding us, wildly seeking release and demanding freedom, accusing everyone standing with out of forcing us in.
I feel my son moving within me now, as I write. What he knows of me at this point is simply water, warmth, safety, and life. My body knows, better than my mind, how to embrace the reality of “loving and setting free.” My body has quietly and constantly knit and nourished this little boy, cradling him without question. And one day soon, my body will set him free, doing what it is built to do, without pausing to consider “the options.” Without pausing to consider, “But is it true?” My body knows better than to build a fence around love made flesh.
To be loved and set free. Over and over and over again. This is what we all want, men and women alike. This is what we crave throughout life, from the moment we leave the gates of her body to the moment we rest in the earth. To be loved, so as to be set free. And we look to her to show us how, long before we recognize we exist apart from her.
It takes all of my courage to make this prayer to God – but even in offering it, I sense him answering it.
God…Father. Help me to live in the sole conviction that I am loved: that I am set free. Pump the red, hot blood of compassion into all that is frozen in me. Dismantle the pattern, the gridlock, the walls. Let me sway in your love like the green tendrils that sway in the sea – anchored but agile.
Let me teach my son that to be loved is to be set free. Whatever that means, again and again and again: to be loved, to be set free, season by season and age after age, until he is laid to rest in the heart of the world.