Perspectives
There must be some sort of tension that lies between the roles of being a mother and being a writer. A writer who writes for the sake of writing, and not for the intent of glorified acclaim that comes with publication, is one who turns inward. When I write, I unabashedly present my views, my fears, my experiences as the crux of reality, contained in verses or in prose riding on cadence. I control how I portray high and low points, as I hush screaming voices and exclaim quiet victories. I tell my world to patiently wait for me to make my point.
Writing, it has been for me, an exercise in struggling with truths that I have yet to understand. Oftentimes, it allows me to ask and ponder-and sometimes to assume-what it is I consider important and significant. As a writer, I am allowed to be indulgent in boundlessness. It is this indulgence in possibilities that I relish, that which allows me recapture reality in countless perspectives.
The mother who writes needs to relearn life in the world. When my baby cries, I realize that the center of the universe has shifted to this helpless, demanding infant. I can no longer make assumptions on what is important, the universe has made one for me. By thrusting this new life in my hands to help form into his own self, the world assumes that my role is to reach out to him constantly. As a mother, I indulge my child as he tries out his voice with a scream and as he claims his little victories. I listen patiently as he tries to make a point.
And then, as I watch him fearlessly disregard boundaries, I know I can share with him the realm of possibilities I cherish-reality’s countless perspectives are wide open to both of us.
as published in Mum in the Metro
Writing, it has been for me, an exercise in struggling with truths that I have yet to understand. Oftentimes, it allows me to ask and ponder-and sometimes to assume-what it is I consider important and significant. As a writer, I am allowed to be indulgent in boundlessness. It is this indulgence in possibilities that I relish, that which allows me recapture reality in countless perspectives.
The mother who writes needs to relearn life in the world. When my baby cries, I realize that the center of the universe has shifted to this helpless, demanding infant. I can no longer make assumptions on what is important, the universe has made one for me. By thrusting this new life in my hands to help form into his own self, the world assumes that my role is to reach out to him constantly. As a mother, I indulge my child as he tries out his voice with a scream and as he claims his little victories. I listen patiently as he tries to make a point.
And then, as I watch him fearlessly disregard boundaries, I know I can share with him the realm of possibilities I cherish-reality’s countless perspectives are wide open to both of us.
as published in Mum in the Metro