I ache with beauty and joy the way some ache from pain and loss. They say the best art can come from suffering, I just never knew my suffering and heartache could be so full and rapturous, so euphoric and life giving. Perhaps this is why now as a mother I feel called to move, dance, make and create unlike ever before. This desire quickly moves past all reason and choice, transforming into a visceral pursuit, an instinctual guiding force. There is simply not enough space in these bones to feel what motherhood has given me, what it continues to give and sometimes take.
Most days I feel myself spilling over, moving past my shape and form. It's almost as if my affections are looking for a second home, a willing taker, an eager observer, a bottomless space to fit and collect. I've always been called, but lately I feel I have no choice but to spill over onto pieces of paper, old wooden dance floors, and just inside the frames of my moments captured, sealed in time.
I move, dance, create and share, not because I can, but because I must. It is the very extension of myself, the natural sequel of the fleeting details and moments of motherhood and childhood. The way her eyes light up when I’m available and willing, her furrowed brow requiring further explanation, or our silhouette from the hallway as I peer into the bathroom mirror and rock her to sleep. These details consume me until the joy is so deep and the love is too wide that not even my own self can fit inside these skin and bones.
I created life for them to live, but now I must create a way for me to remember, a way for us to live on.