Time, the Thief — Thoughts on the Metamorphosis of Motherhood

I wrote this poem yesterday, feeling the turn of time, viewing myself with a critical eye.

The poem is raw, soaked in tears of mourning after a hard look in the mirror triggered a grief I’ve dealt with since becoming a mother — the loss of the maiden.

A loss of self.

Being a writer, I turned it into expression. I'm grateful to have writing, music, yoga, and other tools to keep emotions moving and not put my feelings in lockdown until they drag me down.

I remind myself it's okay to feel. That's what makes us human.

My poem ended up with a bit of a style I’ve seen used by @carmalain7 and @geekorner lately, where one poem morphs into another. I let the verses shift as waves of emotion pushed out the words.

But before I give you the poem, let's talk about a holy trinity.

gifs via giphy.com

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Maiden, Mother, Crone

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This perspective on the cycles of womanhood has been in the forefront of my mind as I continue to adjust to the shifting of identities, from maiden to mother.

Maiden — The time of the maiden is that of youth, and I personally aligned with this aspect of the feminine until I had children at 36. Society worships this element of the feminine, while the mother and crone are pushed to the edges.

Mother — This is generally thought of as the middle years of a woman’s life, though some transition into the role of mother quite early.

Crone — The crone’s time comes in the later years of life, after menopause, though I’d expect this transition could come at varying ages for women in different situations.

This trinity signifies the course of a woman’s life, and common themes circle through cosmologies from all over the world. For example, the triple goddess shows up in Hindu mythology as Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Kali to signify the stages of creation, abundance, and destruction. Trinities show up in religions and philosophies everywhere.

And, of course, there are parallels in the lives of men.

Each of us feels the march of time.

Though our stories are different, we all have hardships. Every person deals with change on a personal level. Sometimes it shows up as grief before a sense of acceptance can set in, and moving on becomes more possible.

Without further ado, the poem.

Time, the Thief

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I have reached the point where I see
My reflection, but see less of me.
Not who I thought I was, at least,
As if Time has stolen me away, the thief.

Dark circles under tired eyes,
Skin more creased, drawing sighs,
Stripes stretched from growing young,
Gave them my essence, now the pendulum has swung.

Heart descending, I watch myself fade.
Is it all ego, a shallow charade?
Shouldn’t I be stronger, not so cross,
Grieve without self-pity for my loss?

But I was beautiful. Truly.

Beauty fades. Beauty changes.
Beauty shines from within.
I know.
Shhhhh.
I know.

Still the grief comes.
But this vanity does not become me.
A warrior wears his scars like medals.
How does a mother wear hers?

How does the girl-child in my heart
Understand that beauty is not
Confined to the manufactured images
Of dolls and models and Disney princesses?

How do I look in the mirror and see my beauty
Past puffy eyes and sore shoulders weighed with duty?

My warrior is there,
He lives in my heart
Swinging his sword
Healing me every time I’m torn apart.

I feel his strength,
And that of my queen,
But how do I EXIST here, now,
Amidst this mess unseen?

I will order my thoughts,
And soldier on,
This grief will fade,
A new day will dawn,

But the loss is true as a fallen friend.
Time has stolen my youth again.

Original poetry by Katrina Ariel a.k.a. Rain Sunshine Snow

Ouch.

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Yeah, so…

Whooooooosh…

That one hurt.

I’ve reached the point in my life where I have to wear makeup if I want to cover up the dark rings under my eyes and soften the deepening wrinkles. There's a few extra pounds on this body that was once so lean.

I don’t want to wear makeup. It's not something I do, really. Every so often I wear mascara and blush, then think it’s a chore to wash the mascara off at night. I don’t want to feel like I have to put on a mask to face myself.

That’s the thought that triggered the grief. But hey, I got a poem out of it.

I feel better now. I got all dressed up to go to town. Funky clothes are more fun than makeup in my world. Nothing against makeup, just not for me right now.

Sunglasses work almost as well, sometimes better.

And anyway, the princess became the general, right? She still had grace and beauty.

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The big four-oh.

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I’m turning 40 this year. I’ve never cared how old I am, honestly. I chalk it all up to experience and am happy to keep evolving as a human. But this one seems to have some weight to it.

Part of the issue is shifting the unrealistic image of “ideal beauty” that has been sold to me since I was a little girl. I’ve been unpacking this damaged illusion of body image for years now, but it was easier when I was physically closer to that “ideal beauty.”

I never really felt old until I became a mother. Granted, I waited till 36 to do it, so maybe it wouldn’t have taken as much of a toll if I’d given birth earlier in my life. I dunno. Doesn’t matter. At least I lived fully before having children, because now I have to live in such a different way.

I saw a good friend yesterday after I wrote this poem, on my way to town. She’s a mother with more experience than I, and we laughed at the harsh reality of this process of change and loss that is common to everyone who survives long enough to age.

I love my children. I love sharing my life with them. And the sacrifices of freedom and my own sense of youth have been high costs to pay. Both things are true at the same time. I am still coming to terms with how the things I loved about my old life show up differently in my current one.

And yes, of course I am still beautiful, but my face is changing. There’s no denying it. My belly will always show the signs of how enormous it grew to accommodate two babies. And I accept that price. They are precious. I am grateful for them.

But there is a grieving process to life, I guess. A cyclical renewal of letting go and flowing with change. Perhaps my beauty is not the same, but I will navigate it as gracefully as possible.

I suppose 40 is the year I trade beauty for grace.

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Self-care, and more thoughts on the metamorphosis of motherhood.

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I went to town for an acupuncture appointment yesterday. I’m fortunate enough to be friends with the Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner I go to, and she’s been treating me since I was pregnant. She specializes in helping mothers, so she sees a lot of what women face.

Our treatments always start with something like ten minutes of us talking, mostly me unloading whatever is going on with me physically, mentally, or emotionally. She’s an amazing listener, and always helps me realize what I’m going through is common to all mothers.

She said, “It’s hard. I don’t think I’ve seen a woman go through this metamorphosis of motherhood where it isn’t hard.”

Okay, so at least it’s normal.

Since my right shoulder and arm have been acting up for months, the treatment was mainly focused on that. My friend did a collection of points, then took them out and did cupping.

Have you ever had cupping done? It draws out stagnation in the body and I have some wicked purple marks on my back to prove it. Those will go away, but my massage therapist tomorrow will probably be impressed.

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Where I’m at on Steemit.

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Acupuncture and massage in the same week?

Yeah. My body needs some love.

Some of my Discord friends might remember a couple months back when I injured my arm. Well, it’s still hurting, but now I have discomfort from my neck to my hand on my right side. My dominant side, of course.

All the scrolling and clicking of playing in the sea of Steemit doesn’t help, so I’ve been spending less time at the computer these days and more time resting.

I feel like I’m still trying to catch up on sleep from when my boys were babies.

When I started Steemit, I posted every day. Right now, I’m struggling to post a few times a week.

After reading posts from @techslut and @natureofbeing, both of whom came to the conclusion that they’d rather focus on quality of posts rather than quantity, I stopped pressuring myself to post every day.

What’s important to me is that I stay consistent, but also give myself time to practice guitar and write the novel I’ve been neglecting since diving into the sea of Steemit and Discord.

I’ve been upvoting posts each day, checking in with fam on discord and trying to support as I can, but my comments and posts are way down. I can no longer keep up with the likes of @davemccoy and @abh12345 (but I’m cheering y’all on).

I have to be okay with what’s possible right now, rest my arm, and attend the other things in life. Like spending more time with my kids and less time looking at a screen.

I’m in Steemit for the long haul, so even if I only post once a week sometimes, I’ll still be around. Maybe I'll share a bit of that novel if I get back to writing it.

Thank you so much for reading, for giving me a place to share my thoughts and creativity.

Peace. @katrina-ariel

(All photos mine unless otherwise credited.)

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Author bio: Katrina Ariel is an old-soul rebel, musician, tree-hugging yogini, and mama bear to twins. Author of Yoga for Dragon Riders (non-fiction) and Wild Horse Heart (romance), she's another free-spirit swimming in the ocean of Steemit.

dragon art: Liiga Smilshkalne

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