A domestic

My daughter celebrated her birthday loudly this week, as she is wont to do. When I had dinner for her with her siblings and my Lyria I laughed a little to myself. So here it is, domesticity. 

Once I would have ruled kings with the power of my body and will and knife, and effected the movement of the world. 

I do delight in all my children, including those of the flesh. I regret them not at all, and I do not wish them to suffer. I wish them happiness and love and joy. But I also wish for them meaning, and this is the difficulty. For this year, I have given up the meaning with which I was raised. Even in joining San on the side of the light, I still understood this as a choice that was meaningful, and when my other duties called to me I performed them not because I felt pressure or habit but because regardless of the perspective they were something that gave me a purpose. Not only this but I felt myself in doing so, for I, Magdalynn, am what I was, or was what I am, or was what I was. 

But just now for this year I am nothing. I sing a little. I read a little. I make love a little. I parent as much as is needed. But for no purpose beyond the simplest. It would be a lie if I said I enjoy the lack of it. I do not. I see that others have their various desires and meanings, but I do not.

I feel used up, used by San and discarded in the face of whatever it was he came to believe, yes, and this would be untrue if I said it was not part of it. I began this journey partly on the faith that he would be at the end of it so that at least I would have that much, and yet he left callously. 

I feel used up by my first lover who promised much from beyond the grave and yet died in the ordinary way, with nothing. 

I feel used up by my religion, which at least makes no promises but suffering, and that, it delivers even apart from it. Even so I used to feel a flow of power and fire and that is dormant. 

I feel used up by myself. I ask myself: Once you wrote songs and poetry, once you read poetry aloud at cafes and sought eyes in the audience lit up with understanding. Once you liked to dress, to read and such. You were not only San’s wife and soulmate, not only alaha, not only mother, not only lover. Why do you leave yourself then? 

Then last week I came to Mikael. Others of Lynn would have gone, but I went. For that time I felt more myself, but then I was angry with myself for it. I will not require a lover, even the best of lovers, to feel restored to myself. Yet I am not certain of any path back that does not pass through a bed. 

Write that song, say some here.

But I no longer hear the beat of it. 



About Jenn

Find me on Twitter @JennGruden
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