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Tania Pryputniewicz

Lost Wings, Hesitations, and Outgrowing the Metronome

 

Photo by Robyn Beattie
Photo by Robyn Beattie


At our old house in the redwoods, I kept a tiny clay figure on the kitchen window ledge. A Xmas ornament I bought for my daughter at Rose and Thorn. Of course she fell from the tree: a kneeling fairy never meant for surviving a Husky, two cats, three children, and one exhausted mother alone drinking tea in the fruit-fly aura of lights on the midnight tree. Ever after, she lived on the ledge perched on a square glass bottle resting on its side full of sea glass. I kept her broken wing beside her with faith my father, the Thursday night gluer of every damaged thing, would repair her after we’d helped ourselves to his loaves of cornbread and split pea soup.

We’ve relocated so I don’t have to parent alone after three years of weekend marriage. The fairy is here, but not her wing. She’s still on the square glass bottle on my kitchen window counter. Behind her, instead of redwoods, birds of paradise and the peach belly fluff of Luna, transplanted cat, mercilessly tracking the hummingbirds hovering above the hibiscus shrub. I don’t know where in our transition we lost the wing.

photo by Robyn Beattie
photo by Robyn Beattie

For the first month of our new life in Southern California, each morning I found the sunniest spot in the house and rested face down on the carpet for 45 minutes, sometimes an hour, guiltily, feeling I should be hard at it, blogging, writing, editing, you name it, because we suddenly had Wi-Fi streaming through the house. Because the kids were in school.

But I needed those hours in the sun after the years of feeding the wood-burning stove and dwelling in the glow of pale green lichens of trunk moss and the incandescent golds of massive maple leaves against a rain-soaked hillside. You find alternate ways of seeing the light when you live in the woods. But the acts of seeing light and feeling light sate two different cravings. I had no idea I was so sun-starved until we moved.

Last month when Suzi invited me to post, I wondered what I could possibly add to the bounty already gathered on Laundry Line Divine by answering the question: How do I toggle between mother, writer, blogger, community member and in which space do I get to be fully present?

One answer is that I don’t toggle very well, especially on both sides of our relocation, juggling multiple websites and platforms, mothering 7, 10 and 12 year old children, attempting to write poetry while seeking authentic paths for divining online. Where do I get to be fully present? The honest answer is in starts and stops and by listening to my body (most overlooked but most potent nexus) at each virtual and literal location. One website, one interaction at a time. Whether feeling whole, partially present, apprehensive, overjoyed.

Back in December of 2007 when I started blogging at Feral Mom, Feral Writer, the first entry ran a couple of paragraphs long and served up a scan of the room: an infant nurser sleeping beside my desk, yours truly writing to the ache of milk mottled breasts, and a miniscule frame on the desk with one butterfly wing in it to remind me someday I’d have enough lift to fly. Since I go in and out of feeling overwhelmed by multiple blogs, I was contemplating writing a goodbye anniversary post this coming December for Feral Mom, Feral Writer.

But I hesitated–and re-read backwards through six years of writing to that first post with one wing and realized the magical lifeline the blog has provided, bringing me one heart to heart connection at a time to the verge of something I’ve waited all my life for: publication of a first book of poetry, November Butterfly (forthcoming in 2014 from Saddle Road Press).

But more importantly, the blog gave private (ironically) room to grow in a public arena in the sheltered quiet before commenters appeared. It gave me a loose deadline to aim for while mothering. A place to write without gatekeeper. Where I could wrestle with questions of hide and reveal: how do you write about a marriage crisis neither blaming nor wounding the other (since the act of blogging through crises provides a healing lens not only for blogger, but other mother/wives walking through similar joy/pain fields)? How do you protect the privacy of your children while offering up the light of your best and hardest interactions, keeping the focus on you, feral mother, finding a way through the beautiful disorder no-one could forewarn us we’d navigate?

Always at night, day’s work done, half of the self swirling freely back over the myriad unfinished conversations, my body talks back. I make decisions, I change them. One moment I think I should stop one project in favor of another. The next, I hold them all tight. They all matter. Weighing, circling, asking which site, blog, project, or poem is next, as if they are all rooms off a central hub I can step into at will. Gauging: where is the most heat, thus desire, to engage? And then trusting that information.

Lately the fierceness of the struggle to stop the public reveal (blogging at the crossroads of exposure and inspiration) has to do with new poems that arrived over the summer. Poems I’d been unable to hear until now, though their subjects saturated every attempt at writing something else. Buried obsessions: trespasses my body refuses to forget. I want my children to surge past the age of hurt and into adulthood unmarred. The song of the foolish mother.

Would I keep my children’s lessons from them? Would I withhold my own if I could from the other side? I can’t see far enough. A wing—or veil–over my understanding. But as I grow older, after enough hours of writing in the loving company of a bevy of other writing mothers and creatives (my wingmen), forgiveness arrives. Forgiving my childhood self for not knowing better. For entering a stranger’s house. For not knowing how to unpack the secret. For passing the secret to my brother to keep back when we were kids, a burden doubled. The new poems are naked and direct.

painted by Tania
painted by Tania

Which explains why I lie awake in bed sensing an unfamiliar space opening behind my heart, a circular seam unraveling along the perimeter of my shoulder blades whether pressed up against bed, husband or my youngest fresh from a bad dream. I am neither troubled nor frightened, the trials of adolescence’s fairytale endured. I’m left with curiosity. Where is the lost wing? What does it look like now?

It is less image, more feeling. My back fills warmly with a grid of light. I can almost make out the pattern.

The next morning, attempting to finish this post, I return to scan Laundry Line Divine. A sliver of crossover information confirms the necessity of showing up online. In Suzi’s post on angels and yoga, These Angels Watching Over Me, she describes learning from her teacher that while we “act” with the front of our body, we “receive” with the back of our body (you must read the rest here for the full beauty).

So I vow to pay attention. To receiving. Maybe even revel in the receiving…which is what I see happening here on Laundry Line Divine. I come here to receive. Thank you Suzi and thank you to every writer contributing here. Such light, such warmth.

For now, I’m trusting the hesitations. Thinking of all of us writing mothers as works in progress, not metronomes in wooden towers meting out rhythm for students learning how to keep time. We get to play all parts: metronome, piano, practicing student, the music itself, the listener in the crowd. And eventually the musician outgrows the metronome. Sustaining a writing life while mothering must move at a breathable, pleasurable pace.

If, like, me, you are losing or finding a wing, tell me–where is it now? What does it look like? What does your body know that you haven’t yet stopped to hear?

 


Arms-Crossed

A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Tania Pryputniewicz is the Managing Poetry Editor of The Fertile Source. Co-founding blogger for Mother, Writer, Mentor, Pryputniewicz teaches Poetry of Motherhood and Fatherhood for MWM and Transformative Blogging workshops for women at MWM, A Room of Her Own Foundation and Story Circle Network. Her debut poetry collection, November Butterfly, is forthcoming from Saddle Road Press in 2014. She is newly relocated to Coronado Island, California, with her husband, three children, one blue-eyed Siberian Husky and two tubby housecats. Visit her website for class schedules and posts written in support of the concept of Transformative Blogging.

 

 

To see more of Robyn Beattie’s photos head to her website.

 

  • Ingrid

    I loved the image of the long lost wing starting to bud from your shoulder, wonderful. And understand that sense of being a constant melting post and hub for all the projects one cannot complete but cannot let go of either. I administrate my projects without moving forward, carry them from room to room like kittens, repack them in different stationery to try to preserve them until I can get back to them. It was never like this before my paper babies turned into real ones. Paper babies do not answer back. Although they do carry on calling to you… Lovely writing, thank you so much!

  • http://www.taniapryputniewicz.com Tania Pryputniewicz

    Beautiful, Ingrid, so true, your haunting lines, “it was never like this before my paper babies turned into real ones. Paper babies do not answer back. Although they do carry on calling to you…” and lately I see they too (paper babies) grow and mature and have a timeline all of their own. Left untended even they mature on their own it seems, waiting for my attention. Or maybe they’ve had a portion of it all along in the fertile subconscious. I’m grateful, as always, for the love and mirroring here–thank you for the comment.

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