I am an old woman, never pregnant, with no children, by choice, grateful to have found your meditations, this one especially, with Lucille Clifton's poems.
When he was a boy, my father was given a tiny Atlas figurine made of metal. When I was a small girl, his oldest of three daughters, he gave it to me. The globe could be opened. I treasured the gift and kept cough drops in it. When my only nephew, my father's only grandchild, was a small boy I gave it to him, showing him that when it was turned upside down, it looked like Atlas was standing on his head on the top of the world. My father took a photo of my mother in front of the Atlas statue at the Rockefeller Center when I was 32 years old. My nephew is 30 years old now, unmarried, with a son of his own. He carries all that he can bear. He is not alone.
Reading this as a woman who has experience “bearing young,” I pictured that space she is holding as her flesh, the stomach that no longer looks young and flat but old and rolling. The models, literally, do not show us a picture of womanhood in older age. Yet many of us wear these bellies as testament to living.
A beautiful way to wake up this morning, with such a gorgeous poem and your insightful commentary. Makes one consider the place and power of poetry. To witness fully and compassionately, something I have much to learn about.
So grateful, Devin, for your steady gaze on dominance and compassion, for—over and over—choosing care. Clifton is such a good lodestar for that. Thanks for reminding me.
I am an old woman, never pregnant, with no children, by choice, grateful to have found your meditations, this one especially, with Lucille Clifton's poems.
When he was a boy, my father was given a tiny Atlas figurine made of metal. When I was a small girl, his oldest of three daughters, he gave it to me. The globe could be opened. I treasured the gift and kept cough drops in it. When my only nephew, my father's only grandchild, was a small boy I gave it to him, showing him that when it was turned upside down, it looked like Atlas was standing on his head on the top of the world. My father took a photo of my mother in front of the Atlas statue at the Rockefeller Center when I was 32 years old. My nephew is 30 years old now, unmarried, with a son of his own. He carries all that he can bear. He is not alone.
Reading this as a woman who has experience “bearing young,” I pictured that space she is holding as her flesh, the stomach that no longer looks young and flat but old and rolling. The models, literally, do not show us a picture of womanhood in older age. Yet many of us wear these bellies as testament to living.
A beautiful way to wake up this morning, with such a gorgeous poem and your insightful commentary. Makes one consider the place and power of poetry. To witness fully and compassionately, something I have much to learn about.
I will definitely read more Clifton now that you opened the door. Thanks for sharing your way of seeing.
So grateful, Devin, for your steady gaze on dominance and compassion, for—over and over—choosing care. Clifton is such a good lodestar for that. Thanks for reminding me.