Songs of Innocence and Experience

August 7, 2007

One of the most difficult things about pregnancy, for me, was that it forced me to confront myself as a biological creature. It forced me to experience myself as a body, as a being put entirely into the service of nature. My every wakeful – and not so wakeful – moment was spent in a state of hyper-consciousness about my physicality: I was nurturing a life, and that life depended upon my physical being, and no force of intellect or imagination could alter or facilitate or intercede in that dependency. And as a person who had spent all of her conscious years in her head – and someone who was well-trained in a school of philosophical thought that emphasizes the absolute primacy of mind over body, reason over appetite and base sense – this was very, very hard for me.

So I was anxious – anxious beyond measure – about birth and new motherhood, which I perceived as a broadening and deepening of this experience. I didn’t fear it, exactly: I wanted the experience. Every fibre of my physical being strained toward this experience, and demanded that my mind follow – this, in itself, was disconcerting. The thing of it was, rather, that I doubted my ability to stay the course: how would I ever, ever find my way through this dense thicket, this overwhelming jungle, without maps, without books, without the compass of my intellect? How would I survive, if I had only the thrum of my senses to guide me?

I learned, of course. This education came with difficulty: I spent weeks, months, trying to beat back heavy, fear-dampened branches with dog-eared tomes of advice on navigating the brave new world of motherhood (tomes written, no less, by only the most theoretical of explorers, explorers – men – who had only scanned this landscape through spyglasses, safe on their ships, far from these strange shores), only to discover that while these might force the branches back for a moment, it would only be for a moment, before the branches would lash back and knock me off my feet.

I put the books away. I put the books away and set about listening to the thrum of my senses, and discovered, slowly, that doing what felt right kept me on the clearest course. I navigated my way (with no small assistance from others lost in the same wood, shouting encouragement and direction) through breastfeeding and swaddling and sleep and sleep and sleep and crying-it-out and the first signs of spiritedness, guided by my senses and by the gentle prodding of the sympathetic hands of fellow travellers. I found my way. And now, even when I lose my way, which I still do, I know to trust myself and the kindness of fellows in finding my way back. I know what to do.

The knowledge came, however, in more than the form of a sense of direction. I came to know the the unparalleled joy of allowing myself to embrace my biology, my physicality – and the unparalleled bliss that comes with bonding oneself with, binding oneself to, another creature, and having that creature be bound to you, so tightly, so deeply, that you are really are as one, one physical being, with one bonded heart and one bonded soul. We know something of this bond in love, in erotic love, but only ever fleetingly, in the sweet interstices of romantic companionship; we are never fully, physically bound to our other, no matter what we think Plato might have said, through Socrates, about our souls’ other halves - we are complete souls, we adult beings, and although our greatest happinesses come with allowing our souls to join hands with others, we never merge souls, not really.

Except, that is, when we have a baby. Then we know – if only for a moment, for one long, sweet moment – what it is to be more than one, to be one plus, to have split open and spilled out our blood and our viscera and our spirit and gathered it all back up again in our arms and held it, tight, pressed it to our chests, felt it throbbing and squirming and to have known, to know, what it is to hold one’s soul in one’s arms.

And then to have it pulled away. Because this is what is inevitable, this is what the books can’t tell you, this what no mother can escape: from the moment your child, your soul, is handed to you, whether that child has been pulled from your gut or yanked out from between your legs or flown from across the sea, whether your soul comes to you in gore or wrapped in white cotton sheets, your possession of it – of him, of her – is temporary. Mind-spinningly temporary. Every second, every heartbeat, that passes from the moment you clutch your second soul, your little soul, in your arms, takes that soul away from you. Every moment is a moment of growth, and every moment of growth loosens your grip. And you must keep holding, you must keep your arms outstretched, but you can’t, you mustn’t, fight to hold on.

This, then, is the art of motherhood, and it is not an art of the mind: to hold on and let go, at the same time.

We are constantly letting go: when they are pulled from our arms for the first time, when they stretch out their arms to someone else for the first time, when they first say no. When they first push themselves out of our arms, when they crawl, when they walk, little feet carrying them away. When they wean. When they wave bye-bye without shedding a tear. When they fall down and they hurt and turn to someone else for comfort. When they grow, when they live – with every step that they take they are moving away from us. And it is our task to navigate this ongoing, this infinite, separation with love and with grace.

But once you have learned to know with your body – to have reached far, far beyond carnal knowledge and the intoxicating wisdom of the flesh – to know, fully, what it is to be a body with a soul threaded, literally and figuratively, to its heart, a soul that can give birth to itself, take form, be held oh so tightly and then let go – once you have this knowledge, you are, truly, naked, vulnerable, exposed, open to untold hurts, to infinite pains, to the unshakeable awareness of loss. This is knowledge, and this knowledge thrills, and stings.

So it is that we mothers are ever walking out of the Garden, cursing and praising the heavens, grasping at roses, pricking our heels on thorns.

(For Katie, who has put the boobies away, and for all you others who, like me, came home to find that our little souls had grown – and taken one, two, many steps further away from us – in our absence.)

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    { 64 comments }

    superblondgirl August 8, 2007 at 7:15 pm

    Oh my HOLY, that was beautiful. Makes me want to pack up my blog and slip away into the night because I can’t compare even slightly to one paragraph of it. I am bookmarking this for every step further my boyo takes from me, so I can feel like I’ve got someone commiserating with me as I cry over it. Thanks for this.

    Roz August 8, 2007 at 9:29 pm

    “So it is that we mothers are ever walking out of the Garden, cursing and praising the heavens, grasping at roses, pricking our heels on thorns.”

    THIS is an immotal quote. I read the whole post all the while pulling away from it and telling myself that it’s not like that fot me. That I’m proud to see her stand on her own legs and that it only makes me feel more confident that I’m giving her the skills she needs to show the rest of the world how amazing she is. But that line forced me to really savour the message and I realize that she hasn’t really started to leave yet. That that is somewhere in a foggy future and like the death of my mother that will one day come, I refuse to allow myself the pain of contemplating the inevitability of it all. I can no more do it than hold my hand over an open flame.

    Lisa b August 8, 2007 at 9:42 pm

    I felt the same way about the biology foisted upon me dragging me out of my head and I am a biology teacher. It was all too gross for me. I took PLANT, not animal, bio for a reason.
    I am trying not to be so sad that this one won’t nurse as the demands of being the sole food source for the first one almost drove me insane.
    This is beautifully written as always Catherine. It captures so well the conflicting feelings and demands.
    But damn that motherbumper is always crying these days heh?

    Lisa August 8, 2007 at 10:11 pm

    Wonderful post. Motherhood is a great experience. It has always been a big challenge, but it’s also my source of strength during the dark times.

    ozma August 9, 2007 at 12:02 am

    One thing I found amusing about the pregnancy process was that I refused to think of myself as a biological creature. And pregnancy books encourage that–they give you this illusion of control. It was only later when I saw the absurdity of that.

    Getting older has biologized me more…I think when I was younger I could be more in denial about the plain facts.

    Oh, the weaning. This will ever be bittersweet.

    Cathy August 9, 2007 at 12:08 am

    You just gave me goosebumps.

    Beautiful post.

    Anonymous August 9, 2007 at 11:17 am

    oh catherine this is what we must do …it is the most heartwrenching and yet gives us pride as mothers in a job well done when we let go…LAVENDULA

    Ruth Dynamite August 9, 2007 at 8:10 pm

    A masterpiece, Catherine. Once again, you’ve spoken the truth with piercing eloquence.

    Indigo Children August 10, 2007 at 1:24 am

    That hurts to read. Thanks for giving words to a complex truth.

    Her Bad Mother August 10, 2007 at 12:11 pm

    Ozma – that’s it exactly. They almost never encourage you to give yourself over to the biological inevitabilities of the whole process. They perpetuate the idea that we *can* think our ways through this. Which we can’t. We just can’t.

    Nora H. August 11, 2007 at 1:33 am

    Lovely.

    mo-wo August 11, 2007 at 2:22 am

    When I began.. I was too lucky to have 3 or 4 good souls told me that it was in me in more ways than one.

    But not one told me I could be replaced by what came after. I feel you capture the ethereal moroseness of it all. For me, I’ll say. The very notion that I am completed as a being that their existence and persistence more than fills the hole I have dug out for myself. The nothing of my being remains necessary but where it might grow them a bit more — like it did at womb-stage.

    Gawd that makes my everything else completely superfluous? Superficial?

    I need a drink.

    Jenifer August 12, 2007 at 12:55 pm

    HBM….

    How dare you…

    My daughter just turned 3 yesterday and boy did you just make me cry.

    In a good way though. Your writing never ceases to amaze me.

    Dawn April 22, 2008 at 11:07 pm

    Catching up after just finding this blog today. I tried to articulate these very thoughts a few months ago but was nowhere near eloquent. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing your beautiful ability to write. With each of my twin boys’ new achievements I find joy, but I also feel them pulling away and know that this is one of the pains of motherhood. Thank you again for creating the imagery of how it feels.

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