Music for Puddle Jumpers

These words are not for everyone.

They’re for those of us who have felt a twinge or a tidal wave of rage. Or anywhere in between.

Maybe it started when you became pregnant.

Maybe it’s whenever rejection knocks on your door.

Maybe it’s a voice that simply started speaking the words “no more.”

Maybe it’s in your dreams that have you gasping for air as you force your eyes open in the dead of night. Searching for self in the space between then and now.

Regardless, this piece is not for everyone.

Not every mother feels unrest.

This is a universal role, not a universal experience.

As it should be.

This is for you.

Those whose battle lies within.

To let you know this is not unusual. Even if it makes you feel unusually uncomfortable.

But no less human.

But no less successful.

But, should be our favourite word.

After all, the symphony of your mind is a cacophony. You’re still finding your melody. While others have known their theme since before time.

Every score needs a composer.

You pick the notes you like best.

You have a good ear. At least, good enough for your own tune.

For those of us finding our song while teaching little lungs to sing. Grace.

There is no harder way to compose but it is a way. And once written, it will be beautiful. No more beautiful than anyone else’s chart. No less. After all, music is subjective.

To those of us with a storm inside, keep rowing. Your arms are getting stronger. Your muscles are toned with experience. It’s a shame you can’t read the map of your hero’s journey written across your shoulders. We don’t have eyes on our backs for a reason. I suppose.

You smile at the sun. And sometimes you cry. You savour each snow fall as the proof of the magic that it is. And you mourn every thaw that comes too early. You feel the earth beneath your feet. You can’t seem to move fast enough to keep up. And yet you’re keeping exactly the right pace. Yours.

You grieve. The tears that were once stuck move quickly now. They rise to meet your lower lashes and are grateful to be pushed out by heavy lids. Little bits of the storm pouring out of you. The clouds part. Your subconscious is always ready for inclement weather. Infinity wrapped in a raincoat.

You hear things. You bristle easily. You notice. Maybe that’s why it hurts.

We are all out here. With antennas up. Picking up frequencies that have no language. But you feel it. As you slide past someone on the sidewalk and pick up your pace. A moment of recognition, then fear. Instead, you smile as you rush past. An offering.

Like an out of home ad, your smile is hard to collect data from. You never know how far it will reach. Even if you’re the only one who notices the tiny muscles in your face. You are someone, too.

Ease. It is easy to ignore. But it's difficult to step outside as the skies open up and allow your hair to get wet. Especially after so many years of heat damage. It is not easy to let it curl into a crown of frizz and dead ends. Despite the fractures the strands continue to grow, and breakage releases what you no longer need. If you let it.

To stand still. Drenched. Whole. And uncertain.

 A little mad but truer than before.

 Knowing your love is not a place but a commitment that cries “once more, unto the breech!”.