Monday, October 14, 2013

Writing Isaiah Entry #22


Writing Isaiah 
Entry #22
October 14th, 2012

Well, my sweet boy, you are the final entry. When I place the period on the last sentence of this particular blog, addressed to you, the Writing Isaiah project will be complete. I gotta tell ya: this is one of the coolest things I've ever done. One of the most life giving writing endeavors I've ever engaged. Thanks for the inspiration! I pray that when you read these some day a picture, no a collage, of incredible meaning and value, of insight, understanding and even mystery unfolds for you. I hope you have lines of sight to the incredible people who have provided prompts, people I love with my whole heart, people who already love you and will hopefully still be around when you're old enough to read their submissions. I hope you get a glimpse of how beyond blessed I felt by my pregnancy with you. I hope you understand me, your momma, a little better in and through these writings. More than anything, if you're reading this, if you're "here," I hope you know how much I love you, that my love for you was alive and well-kindled before I ever saw your face. I hope these blogs speak the language of my love for you and that you receive it, fully. And that in receiving it you recognize something about your own lovableness which inspires you to become even more boldly who you are. 

We found out about you on Valentines Day. That set a precedent. I'm not sure you can ever fully comprehend all of the things you've set in motion with your becoming/presence. But it's all love. All love. That holiday was never anything more than bullshit Hallmark heterosexist sentimentality to me until this year. Now it's all love. Because of you. 

You are going to arrive in October. There's so much herstory/history, family stuff, in this month. This is the month of your grandma Marty's birthday, your grandparents anniversary, your grandpa's death. It is the month when the leaves change and the world explodes in color so exquisite you can't help but weep sometimes. October is the place where grief and beauty dance together in the face of winter. Learn that dance well, my son, it will serve you. Your ancestors are in it. Watch for them in the trees and listen for them in old church hymns that make you cry for no apparent reason. Let your body be moved always like the Earth is moved in Fall. I can give you no more important advice. 

There are so many things I could tackle here. I could write entire blogs to you about how afraid I am to raise a boy (a boy!) given my horrendous past with male identified folks. I could spend time trying to explain why I'm a pastor even though it drives me incredibly nuts a lot of the time. I could write about the state of America for black men (of course from my limited white perception) and how that strikes an ongoing fear and fierce commitment in my mother's heart. I could write about what I want for you, my dreams for your future. But all of that feels overly presumptuous or something.

Instead, I'm going to admit the most honest, basic thing I've got. My excitement. Which in some ways I owe to your sister. Let me explain...

When I was pregnant with Aurora there were things I imagined about becoming a mother, about becoming her mother, that actually came true. And trust me: they were worth being excited about! She is a thrill! A miracle in skin, blessing my world backwards and forwards and every which way. But there were things to come through her, with her, because of her, from inside of her that I couldn't even have imagined. Things that now make me wonder how I ever lived without them. Like her little voice in the back seat singing "twinkle twinkle little star." Like the way she grabs her daddy's face and draws him in for a kiss in the morning. Like her new obsession with swaddling Gaia (our dog) with blankets we used to swaddle her in during the first months of her life. Like her smile and bright eyes that have softened every place in my (formerly) hard ass self. I couldn't have known, before the flesh and blood Truth of her outside my body became a reality, all of the things in store for us as a family, for me as a mother, for her as an emerging entity unique and pure. 

Because I have gone through it once before, I know now that there are things about you that I cannot even faintly conceive of that will change me, change JR, change Aurora, and change the world forever in ways that are good, profound, beautiful and True. I am excited about that. I am excited for you, about you. 

In closing, I want to offer you/us a prayer for our closing hours/days/weeks of being housed together in this body of mine and for your birth/delivery:

Isaiah, 
young one whose name means
"YHWH is Salvation"--
may you get everything you need
sustenance, growth, rest and readiness
from all that I am 
and all that G-d is
in these final times
and may it give you everything you need
motivation, sustaining momentum and power
to work your way, your splendid way, 
into this world. 
May you know that what lies within me
pales in comparison 
to the miracles awaiting you out here.
May we find each other, 
on that great day 
you breathing for the first time
me having lost my breath
in a mess of fluids and tides of grace
entirely new through the oldest miracle there is--
birth. 
Come, beautiful child, come. 
Without fear, without compromise, 
make your way, your splendid way. 

Let's do this. I love you. 
Mom 

2 comments:

Kathy Szenda Wilson said...

Your words bring me so quickly back to the day I first greeted Evan outside of my body. Such a profound intense experience. So much love so much beauty. You love with a fierce intentionality that I admire and adore. Xoxo

Marty Tamburrano said...

Oh my. What a welcome Isaiah is receiving. Sometimes it is hard for me to comprehend your largeness, your depth, your beauty, my daughter, and I stand in awe.