I stayed up late writing an article discussion last night. I had been thinking about it for over a week, had mulled the ideas around in my head and though I got started late I was thinking, this is brilliant, an essay in the making. I used to do the same thing in college when I left papers to the last minute. I’d be up until the wee hours of the morning thinking how awesome the paper was, how it rocked that I could just shoot from the hip like that and still come up with something so great. And the same thing happened to me today as used to occur in college. After I slept a few hours and went back to reread my masterpiece in the light of day, with the clarity that comes from a rested mind what was revealed was a first draft, perhaps worthy of reworking, but definitely not ready to publish, even in an informal blog; I need to do some serious revising.
One thing that I didn’t have to factor in during college is what actually put me over the edge and past my deadline for today. My son, sweet, eighteen-month old cutie with a dimple to die for and big brown eyes woke up about thirty minutes after I had called it quits for the night. That was at 3:30 a.m. He stayed awake and screamed for a reason still unknown to us until 6:30 this morning. The latter hour is the one I had set my alarm for, so I could finish my masterpiece and get it posted. But I went back to bed, slept until fifteen minutes before I had to be out the door and am writing this after a fun-filled, but long and exhausting day. You’re probably better at math than me and realized without having to count it out on your fingers that sleeping from 6:30 until 9:15 equals 2 hours and 45 minutes. Yeah, I’m ready to hit the sack already, it’s 7:00 p.m.
So my deep and ponderous discussion on charity will have to wait for another day. But I do have a poem that struck me and I kept thinking of it as I sat next to my son’s crib last night. As I sang hymns and primary songs, rubbed his back, played with his hair so he wouldn’t scream and wake up his sleeping sister in the bed just across the room, I found the words, “sleep awhile” creeping into my pleading prayers, the words came from the poem, “we all hate to be alone” , by Johnna Benson Cornett that I had read just hours earlier. It seemed my baby’s sleep eluded him only because he wanted me there. He was fed, clean, dry, warm, tired, well, but as he would drift off and I’d try to slowly creep out of the room back to my own bed he would again begin to cry. He sensed me leaving, and though my own body ached with fatigue to be in my own warm bed, I would return again and say a little prayer, “Father please, help him sleep awhile!” Later my husband took over and found that once my son lay down on his pillow he could just say his name and reassure him as he would begin to wake and he would calm down again. Finally he slept. I wanted to communicate all the things I had read in the poem to him. I thought by staying, by touching, singing, loving, he would know, “i am yours, i am here, i am here”.
But it seems that by staying too close I prevented him from sleep. His security required space as well as closeness. He needed to know someone was there, but still be alone. And though he hated it, and we all hate it, I am struck with the reality that is the only way. We can have someone close, they can be ours, but they are always outside and to learn and grow we must be alone, we must choose to let go.
Talk to me about what Johnna’s poem teaches you or about other poetry you have really enjoyed from this issue.
My oldest son has difficulty with boundaries; knowing what his space is vs. his brothers, his responsibility vs. his parent\’s, his insecurity or mine. Over and over again, I remind him of the difference between close and too close. And yet, as I reflect on my life, I know that I struggle with the same issue.
And yes, I have painfully realized that my son\’s and my hubby\’s actions do not directly reflect on my parenting, my spous\”ing,\” my being. That I need to love them, support them, but not BE them. And I realize that I am alone, and so are they. And yet not so alone that I can\’t hear their cry nor they hear mine. That I can\’t wish to be trees \”espaliered, in a grid.\” That I can\’t whisper and believe that \”i am yours, connected, sleep awhile.\”
This speaks to me on many levels. I understand the reality of trying to comfort a child during a sleepness night. I also recognize my own need for closeness to my children, and the bittersweet joy of watching them grow apart from me, as they need to do to reach their full potential. There is joy and sorrow, pride and longing, on each side.
P.S. Sleep well.
All I know is that this poem made me weep like crazy the first time I read it, and it still makes me teary.
I loved this poem too (I just wrote Johnna the other day to tell her as such!)
I love to be alone, I just hate being lonely.
I enjoyed your insight concerning security, space, and closeness as much as I enjoyed Johnna’s beautiful poem. Nicely put.
The poem “To My Friend, Chronically Ill,” also spoke to me. I could understand the speaker’s desire to alleviate her friend’s suffering and the fear of doing the wrong thing. It was beautiful to me how she shared what she longed to give and couldn’t; and how she shared what she actually could give (lovey words and rhythm eloquently expressing her feelings.)
Jennifer B. I also loved “To My Friend, Chronically Ill” It made me teary, as does “we all hate to be alone” Kathy.
Angie, as tired as I was yesterday, I admit to loving the protection I can offer a small dependent child. My older daughter is still only 3 years old, so I haven’t experienced much of the bitterness that I know will certainly come as she grows more and more independent. But I’m sure I will just have to keep the perspective that all joy is coupled with sorrow. And know that I will experience continued joy as both of my kids go out into the world that is “theirs”.
Maralise, isn’t it amazing all of the eternal truths that are learned and relearned through marriage and parenting? It is the perfect plan to help us become more like our Father.
And Court, I don’t think we can ever describe ourselves as alone unless we’re lonely. And I know you like to be alone, from your latest essay about walking the dogs (Love it by the way! You have such a gift for being funny and poignant at the same time. I’m glad you write so that we get to learn from all of your lessons too.)
I love to hold my babies close in my arms and envelope myself in their smell and feel. I know I’m going to miss that when they stop wanting to snuggle (it happens too fast). But I’ve found with my older children a way to be with them in terms they embrace and desire. It’s not the same as that early cuddly feeling, but it is deeply fulfilling and powerful in its own way.
Because no matter how old our children get and how much they push away, they, just like us, long for someone to love them.
I noticed that I wrote a lot a night too, with the same dynamic Heather so well describes. And sure, the morning would reveal I had not created a finished masterpiece–but some important piece got said, ready for its rewrite.
The late night writing can be exhilarating. It got addictive to chase the late-night creativity, but night after night, in between days of child after child, the late-night productivity tapers off and goes sour. Especially if one of the children got sick in the night, or was up with a nightmare, the double blow of no sleep seemed to be a punishment for trying to be anything other than a mom.
So, I read the Artist’s Way and started writing mornings instead. Mornings also have that wake/sleep quality, which is lovely for play and new thoughts.
It has been a wonderful experience for me, to have people read my poem in Segullah and respond so generously about it. If it is amazing to have something like a poem come out of you, it is just as amazing, and more complete, to have a poem-thing read. However, I hope no one reads “we all hate to be alone” and takes it as a screed requiring constant attachment parenting. All of us need, at times, to be alone, and all of us hate to be alone; and that’s a state that no mother or even God, no matter how loving, can deliver on.