On the ordinary magic of mothering/writing

I wrote the following poem years ago when, as a single mom, I struggled with the same questions and feelings that Sam and Kris wrote about in their previous posts.

My children are grown now and so, in its way, is my poetry. And even though I have no little children tugging at my mind and body, no next poopy diaper to change, I still choose to work the magic of the mundane, the ordinary. Why? Because it is the only work.

The word "ordinary" comes from the latin: to order; and the root word of "mundane" is world. To tend carefully to the ordinary, the mundane, is to serve no less than the work of the Anima Munde Herself. To work an ordinary magic is to be a priestess of the Orderer of the World.

And so I dedicate this to you, Sam and Kris, and to every mom who struggles with the sacred burden of working her own small ordinary magics within what seems to be her own unimportant little corner of the everyday world.

Though the powers-that-be are invested in seducing you to believe otherwise, know that you are the mother/priestesses who, every single day, order the creative inner worlds from which your children will grow their realities. You are the singers of what the world longs to become long after you are gone.

Magic, indeed.


Work

Some things never go away
Never leave me alone
Stretch marks
Dirty dishes
Overdue bills
And the pen in my hand
Rendering its constant stream
Of words
Hauled up
Out of the well
Dripping and sparkling
To hang in the air
And wait their turn
To be arranged just so
And dry in the sun