Attending

Today's writing instruction is to write about something you need to attend to.

"Is something calling you to sit beside it with mercy?"

What a beautiful way to phrase what we want to accomplish in writing about something heavy.

And then the instructor added, "And start with the words 'I am creative and brave and funny and wise.'"

I love the juxtaposition of this. If you are going to write about something weighing heavy on your soul, why not start with "I am creative and brave and funny and wise"? Pat yourself on the back before you tear yourself down. It's the kind thing to do. 

When I used the word today above, I was referring to Monday, February 10. 

It is no longer Monday, February 10. 

Today is Friday, February 14. I sat with those instructions and thought about those instructions and wrote nothing for four days. I knew exactly what I needed to write about and still I wrote nothing for four days. Because sometimes that's how writing works. 

Then today (there's that word again), I participated in a workshop where I was given 15 minutes and this prompt:

Write about mothers (or mother figures) as both the best and worst thing ever.

And here is what I wrote:

What a timely prompt. I've been writing about motherhood a lot lately. I've written extensively for my son about how I know I wasn't a great mother to him and I'm sorry. It may be cliche, but there's truth in the simple sentiment I did my best. 

I did. 

And my best wasn't great. 

When A1 left the way he did, I was devastated. It proved I was a terrible mom. Again. Two for two. Two days later, my brother sat in my kitchen as I cried, and he said something that has stuck with me ever since. It brings me solace to this day. And it started with, "You did your best." 

He said, "You did your best. You gave all you had. If you give someone your last twenty dollars, it isn't your fault that they needed twenty-five. You have to let that shit go." 

When A2 left the way he did, under circumstances uncannily similar to A1's, I handled it better. I HAD done my best. I HAD made a difference in his life. I gave him my twenty dollars and that has to be enough. 

I understand now that turning 18 in foster care can fuck with a kid's head. And that is what they are. 18 year-old kids. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a home. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a family. It simply doesn't matter. In that moment, their reality is that they are an adult in the sea of foster care, and they are desperate to swim. They're not angry at me. It has nothing to do with me. They don't want to drown. 

All I can do is hope that someday they come to understand, as A1 did, that I will be their shore. I'll be here. No matter the splash you made swimming away, the shore is still there.  

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Talk about sitting beside something with mercy. That's more mercy than I've shown myself since he left. 

I am creative and brave and funny and wise, and I understood the assignment.