A New Narrative for a Single Mother

I wrote a blog post and published it for just 20 minutes before I deleted it. Too personal I said. I had written the disconnection of my life, all the way down to my daughter, and all about privilege (and when I write about that, I even irritate myself). Maybe it wasn’t that is was too personal, but really that I feel just slightly ashamed. Maybe a little afraid that some well-meaning person would give me a bit of superficial advice or worse they wouldn’t give me advice, just think they knew the answers to my problems.

Forget that, now I am writing a new post. It’s true, the feeling disconnected. It’s this disconnect from my self which makes me feel disconnected from life. Just going through the motions, my Self sitting inside wondering when and if she will be able to come out. The constant whirl and worry about my new home. I can tell myself what to think and I can think it, but I have to relocate, I have less than three weeks, I am at a lack for money to give me many options, I have a child and possessions (something I never had to worry about until the child) and those thoughts, worries, never seem to give me rest. Though I can make myself think what I want, it doesn’t seem that I can NOT think things that I don’t want. Will I find a place? Should I have taken that place last month that wasn’t ideal? Did I miss my chance? Are we going to loose everything?…It is exhausting. Its survival.

Yesterday, feeling the thinning connection from my daughter and fearing loosing some of it permanently, I decided to take a little outing, so we heading to the Cheese Factory by the lake to feed the ducks and geese. I was half-way to Bodega before I realized that I have taken the wrong road, but of course wrong is relative and we were really on the right road as we continued our way to the beach just past Bodega. I couldn’t believe how nice it was, this January afternoon was more agreeable than some “summer” afternoons on the Northern California Coast. Ramona, who often balks at the idea of the beach (due to the freezing weather and long car rides) was having a hey day, running barefoot, exploring driftwood buildings, sea dragon nests, making grass tacos for the seagulls.

She came to life, I came to life, the constant nagging drown out by the sound of the layers of waves beating on the shore and on themselves. Drown out but still there. But I felt a sense of connection that I had been missing. For many I know, connection is found in the midst of old friends, there they are grounded. My old friend is the Earth. I grew up an oddity in a world of constantly changing faces and towns, unfamiliar and mostly unwelcoming. But everywhere I went I always could count on nature to ground me, be honest with me and receive me, to allow me to be breathe freely and express myself.

The Earth, my old friend, its landscapes welcome me. I feel comfortable, connected, revitalized. I remember it is the world of people that confuses me. It is the power of nature that awes me: the complexity and simplicity that exist at once, the permanency. This trip to the beach reconnects me with my Self and I begin to understand my anxiety. Sometimes I forget that even though the narrative is already written, I am a writer as well and I can write my own narrative. The narrative that I grew up with was my mother’s. Though I am in many ways like my mother in my inability to engage with society on its terms and need for introspection and creativity, I don’t have to struggle to the death. “Anything is possible” IS a load of crap, but if I believe another world is possible, so is another narrative. I am not doomed to be the impoverished struggling single mom…forever. Or the working single mom who lives on stress and doesn't get to see her baby like she longs too. Or the resentful single mom who feels her child took away her life. Victimized... When I entered single motherhood, I did it with a determination not to live by the rules of our society that are bestowed upon single mothers and find a way to make our lives wonderful. Single motherhood in itself is breaking the rules of the Status Quo and for this single mothers are punished (just look at the statistics).

I became a mother for love. We play the hand we are dealt, but love is a wild card. Love has inspired me to be more, not become a cog for the sake of stability, but play the game like a shark.

Disconnection with my daughter had stemmed from my lack of inspiration as I fumbled around in the land of worry. Letting the Capitalist Machine we call an economy run my life sucks the inspiration from me, including the inspiration to inspire, teach, create with and mentor my daughter. We have just been hanging in the same room. Once in a while a painful realization that we aren’t engaging like I am used to tumbles over me and I tenderly reach over for a hug and a kiss, reminding myself that it won’t remain this way.

But today I seem to have lost the drive to struggle and worry and take too much action. I can’t look for a home like I was. There are only so many places to look. The remedy for despair is action, but sometimes too much action can be overwhelming too. Sometimes we need to let go and let things happen, navigate what the universe hands us. To be vigilant while understanding that sometimes it isn’t going to be your action and worry that are going to get things done, and whatever happens to you could be the best thing that could happen. Just for today I am letting go…