How Does a Mother Feel?

07.01.2016 by annacolibri // Leave a Comment

A mother feels big and fat and squishy, when she doesn’t feel small, warm, and sharp around the knees and elbows. She feels softer than not.

The feel of her hands is rough like a cat’s tongue and gentle and cruel, all depending, with sharpish nails and broad, fleshy palms.

Sometimes a mother’s hair feels like a big, soft puff, while at others it feels heavy, like silk.

A mother’s thighs feel smooth and hard and densely doughy.

Her middle feels like home, or desire, or a nice place to rest your head. Her breasts feel everything from over-used to eager for more.

Sometimes a mother feels like an extension, while at others she feels like a (hostile) invasion.

A mother feels happy and sad and scared and powerful and at times strangely indifferent. She slowly closes her tigerlily eyes and only the good Lord knows how she feels then.

A mother feels familiar, and foreign, and much and exactly unlike everyone we meet.

Now you know how a mother feels.

Are You My Lover?

06.22.2016 by annacolibri // Leave a Comment

This blog, dedicated to all the single ladies and our search for real love, is an adaptation of the beloved P.D. Eastman children’s book, Are You My Mother? At another phase of my life, I read the original to my children over and over and over again. Now I feel a bit like the baby bird, wandering the wide world. The message of Are You My Mother? mirrors what T.S. Eliot said so well:

We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I believe love is home, and that “home,” no matter where or how you find it, is an unshakeable sense of well-being and connection — the feeling of being held by a loving mother.

Are You My Lover?

A man contemplated finding the love of his life.

His heart jumped.

“Oh oh,” said the man. “The love of my life will be here! She will want conscious, caring, and emotionally generous love.”

“I must gain life experience so I can provide conscious, caring, and emotionally generous love!” he said.

“I will be back!”

So away he went.

Meanwhile, a woman felt her own heart jump. It jumped, and jumped, and jumped!

Out came the desire a for conscious, caring, and emotionally generous lover!

“Where is my lover?” she said.

She looked for him.

She looked up. She did not see him.

She looked down. She did not see him.

“I will go and look for him,” she said.

So away she went.

Out into the world she went.

Out, out, out! There was a lot of living to do.

The woman knew very little about love and life.

She did not know about love and life, but she could find out. “Now I will go and find my lover,” she said.

She did not know what her lover looked like. She walked right by him. She did not see him.

She came to an adolescent boy. “Are you my lover?” she said to the adolescent boy.

The adolescent boy just looked and looked. He did not say a thing.

The adolescent boy was not her lover, so she went on.

Then she came to a busy mother. “Are you my lover?” she said to the busy mother. “No,” said the busy mother.

The adolescent boy was not her lover.

The busy mother was not her lover. So the woman went on.

“I have to find my lover!” she said. “But where? Where is he? Where could he be?”

Then she came to a priest. “Are you my lover?” she said to the priest.

“I am not your lover. I am a priest,” said the priest.

The adolescent boy was not her lover.

The busy mother was not her lover.

The priest was not her lover.

So the woman went on. Now she came to a gay man.

“Are you my lover?” she said to the gay man.

“How could I be your lover?” said the gay man. “I am a gay man.”

The adolescent boy and the busy mother were not her lover.

The priest and the gay man were not her lover.

Did she have a lover?

“I do have a lover,” said the woman. “I know I do. I have to find him. I will. I WILL!”

Now the woman did not walk. She ran!

Then she visited her therapist. Could her therapist be her lover? No, it could not.

The woman did not stop. She ran on and on.

Now she looked way, way down.

She saw a pothead. “There he is!” said the hopeful lover. She called to the pothead, but the pothead did not stop.

The pothead went on.

She looked on Tinder. She saw a one night stand. “Here I am Lover,” she called out.

But the one night stand did not stop. The one night stand went on.

Just then, the woman saw a married man. This must be her lover! “There he is!” she said. “There is my lover!”

She ran right up to him. “Lover, Lover! Here I am, Lover!” she said to the married man.

But the married man just said, “Dude.”

“Oh, you are not my lover,” said the woman. “You are a Dude. I have to get out of here!”

But the woman could not get away. The Dude wanted to pick her up.

He picked her way, way up. And up, up, up went the woman.

But now where was the Dude going?

“Oh, oh, oh! What is this Dude going to do to me? Get me out of here!”

Just then, the Dude came to a stop.

“Where am I?” said the woman. “I want to go home! I want my lover!”

Then something happened.

The Dude put the woman right back where she started. The woman was home!

Just then her own lover came back. “Do you know who I am?” he said to the woman.

“Yes, I know who you are,” said the woman.

“You are not an adolescent male.

“You are not a busy mother.

“You are not a priest.

“You are not a therapist.

“You are not a gay man, a pothead, a one night stand, or a Dude!”

“You are conscious, caring, and available, and you are my lover.”

Multimedia image, Natalie Wong, Anna Colibri , Writer, Digital Marketer, San Francisco — You are my lover.

The End

(Charming!) Illustrations by Natalie Wong.

Bee Season

06.08.2016 by annacolibri // 8 Comments

Jesus said, “The Father’s kingdom is like a merchant who had a supply of merchandise and found a pearl. That merchant was prudent; he sold the merchandise and bought the single pearl for himself. So also with you, seek his treasure that is unfailing, that is enduring, where no moth comes to eat and no worm destroys.”
— Gospel of Thomas 76

It’s bee season, and like all seasons this one has its beauty — and it’s meaning.

Like seasons seem to, this one starts before I’ve quite realized the weather has changed.

In May, I start to notice the roses — the ones I’m thinking of I call Chloe* roses. They are small, pink things that smell sweetly spicy, like a baby. The bees, too, come out in May and many die in June. I see them, from perfectly preserved to broken or crushed, on the sidewalks and in the dust as I make my way.

In bee season, things start to worry me; I sometimes feel sad or irritable and I don’t know why. Physical and emotional signs like these, along with Mother’s Day and my own birthday, make me aware that bee season has arrived. I say to myself, Oh, yes. It’s bee season. Take care. Remember what is important.

This bee season I found out that Alison’s son was born on the anniversary of my daughter’s death. She is my roommate, and naturally she will celebrate. My first thought was that I should go away so that my grief and longing would not intrude upon her family’s celebration. But where would I go?

This morning I stopped for a coffee with a French woman I know. We were talking about dating. I said, “I’ve had three babies and I’m almost 47 years old. How can I let a man see me naked?”

It was meant to be funny, but looking at her face, I saw that I had never told her about my first child, a little girl named Chloe, who was born in the first bee season. After all this time she has become a dream I keep in my own heart, carefully swaddled, and mostly alone. And so I explained. The girl was born. And then she died.

My friend cried.

When someone cries over my painful loss, I feel a bond of love and gratitude. It’s as if they are willing to carry some of my sorrow for me, yes, but it is also that they understand she was more than a dream. She was a real girl, and she really did die, and it really did change everything — at least for me.

And so we talked about my little girl, which is something I rarely do. I described how meeting her was for me a spiritual awakening in which I learned how infinitely large love is. Talking about my little girl reminded me of the promise I made to myself after she died, which was to live a loving life despite her death.

It’s been 17 years and I do not view my world through the eyes of love as often as I would like. I do not worry myself about this: The lesson that life is love and love is large is hard to remember and easy to forget — especially when the house is a mess and the bills aren’t paid or you’ve just heard that flight 103 from Heathrow to JFK exploded over Lockerbie.

At times, I feel I am the luckiest woman in the world. I know that I have been given a rare opportunity and a rare gift. What I got instead of a daughter was a chance to understand that life is love. No matter how many times I forget my promise and the meaning of life, miracles come in the form of conversations over coffee or dead bees, to remind me of what is important. I do not have to absent myself on my roommate’s son’s birthday. I just need to remember the things that are easy to forget.

Bee season is about holding love and connection on the palm of my open hand and letting its radiance light myself and everyone.

———————————–

*They are actually called Cécile Brünner roses and grow all around our beautiful city.

Hello

Are You My Lover?

The End