I saw a great movie tonight -- District 9. For those of you who haven't seen it, check it out. The first hour is mindless violence, but if you can get through that, you'll find your mind blasted open, in the best way possible. Go, do yourself a favor and gain some awareness.
I thought I'd write about the lessons learned from the movie -- but I'm still so awestruck that I can't properly formulate coherent sentences. Instead, I leave you with a poem I wrote about six months ago. Micah and I had a beautiful, fun-filled day today, leaving him desperately in need of a bath, which reminded me of this one particular bathtime...
Namaste.
----------------------
for micah.
with just a little coaxing, i stripped you of your armor - cast off my own, and knelt before you, trembling, naked/
it scared me to let you see me this vulnerable.
for i am your protector, your warrior mother who bakes you cookies in the lazy afternoon and thrashes in the sheets/cold sweats & dreams about you in the night.
i would do anything
for you
to love me.
like a submarine, i acquiesced to the water's plea "just let me hold you one more time" - along the same lines of how i always give you an extra squeeze before you leave, just in case.
your inquiring eyes burn holes in mine as you carefully wrap your little hands around cups of blue, green, purple. your chubby baby fingers meticulously orchestrate the foundations of architecture that will save the world - or my soul, at the very least.
stacking squares, you place your art in my hands, inviting me to join in on your exploration of creative potentiality. the steam rises from the bathwater, forming droplets of water on my face, hiding the otherwise undeniable fact that you've moved me to tears with your innocent faith.
later, on a walk in the crisp autumn air, i recall comparing prune fingers as i towel dried your hair. you sank into me like a dream, and i contemplated what it would be like to stop time and keep you at sweet, tender three. you still let me kiss you in public, and you'll never grow tired of sitting in my lap, playing with my hair and blowing raspberries into my neck.
i know you're growing older. i feel your baby body slip away into the bedsheets and emerge in the morning with the hardened musculature of a playful child. your eyes have changed the way they look upon the world. your mouth has altered its former fifteen word vocabulary to spit out imitated jargon, gathered and stored away when i'm not looking or listening.
and now, as i close the day and make my plans for later, i'll drag myself up the stairs where you sleep fitfully, waiting for me to join you in sifting through dreams, selecting fractals of reality from which we weave tangible patterns in the star-studded night, to realize upon waking in the morning.
it scared me to let you see me this vulnerable.
for i am your protector, your warrior mother who bakes you cookies in the lazy afternoon and thrashes in the sheets/cold sweats & dreams about you in the night.
i would do anything
for you
to love me.
like a submarine, i acquiesced to the water's plea "just let me hold you one more time" - along the same lines of how i always give you an extra squeeze before you leave, just in case.
your inquiring eyes burn holes in mine as you carefully wrap your little hands around cups of blue, green, purple. your chubby baby fingers meticulously orchestrate the foundations of architecture that will save the world - or my soul, at the very least.
stacking squares, you place your art in my hands, inviting me to join in on your exploration of creative potentiality. the steam rises from the bathwater, forming droplets of water on my face, hiding the otherwise undeniable fact that you've moved me to tears with your innocent faith.
later, on a walk in the crisp autumn air, i recall comparing prune fingers as i towel dried your hair. you sank into me like a dream, and i contemplated what it would be like to stop time and keep you at sweet, tender three. you still let me kiss you in public, and you'll never grow tired of sitting in my lap, playing with my hair and blowing raspberries into my neck.
i know you're growing older. i feel your baby body slip away into the bedsheets and emerge in the morning with the hardened musculature of a playful child. your eyes have changed the way they look upon the world. your mouth has altered its former fifteen word vocabulary to spit out imitated jargon, gathered and stored away when i'm not looking or listening.
and now, as i close the day and make my plans for later, i'll drag myself up the stairs where you sleep fitfully, waiting for me to join you in sifting through dreams, selecting fractals of reality from which we weave tangible patterns in the star-studded night, to realize upon waking in the morning.
