I'm sitting close to five wild horses on Wild Horse Island in Montana on my last day of a joyous summer vacation. The horses are almost silent, meditative, clustered together with wise eyes watching me, holding still with only their fly-swatting tails making any noise. We're sharing a solitude, held by nature, and in their steady presence I’m getting a moment to catch up with myself.
Before I landed in Montana, I spent five days in Austin helping my 15 year-old daughter get settled into a ballet intensive that will last the better part of July. She’s never been away from home for such a long stretch and we were both curious (that's another word for anxious) to see how she would feel living on her own in a dorm, “working” five long days a week at her ballet job, with no mom around to make sure she eats her veggies or goes to bed before dawn.
Motherhood, since the day it started, has been relentless. And now suddenly, it's not. Winding my way through the paths on this island today, taking my time like it's my own time to take, thinking my thoughts, like the space in my head belongs only to me, I'm becoming aware that I'm not a mom in the way I used to be. I'm separate again. It kind of feels like it's over - the flurry of intensity behind me now. Early motherhood is a long way back - the nonstop physicality of bending and lifting and staying awake and shushing and rocking and watching and feeding and wiping and bathtimes. That phase of motherhood is completely over now. For good. And I have a (mom) part that's so fucking relieved to hear it! And I have another part that's absolutely gutted.
I liked the physical closeness of early motherhood. I had parts that needed that kind of intimacy, and those first years deeply nourished my hungry, neglected Inner Baby who didn't get enough mothering when I was tiny. My Inner Baby watched me do mothering so differently, and soaked in the cuddles and the kisses and the fusion of bodies adhered to each other. She craved closeness and she got it. In droves. She got so much of it in fact, that she became satiated. Other parts started wanting a little space. Some quiet and aloneness and space to think grown-up thoughts that could bloom freely, uninterrupted by kid-questions, able to blossom into grown-up plans and visions and inspiration. Wild horse thoughts on a wild horse island in a field of quiet and peace.
Distance.
And here I am, a thousand miles from my girl, disconnected from her body, being separate. And as I check in with my anxious mom parts, I notice the distance feels fine, because of the closeness I can still feel in my core. That closeness is so deeply embodied, we can experiment with letting go. Distance can be a complement to closeness - salt to its sweetness, a brightness, like lemon, added to the full-on-fat of mama/baby love.
I'm learning about letting go. I'm tentatively touching into the perimeter of my own existence and it's lovely. There are edges to explore, old storylines I had to drop abruptly, that I can pick up once again. There are memories that are calling to me and foreign places to consider adventuring. Distance from my girl is possible now, because I know the closeness is permanent.
I can't wait to pick her up in Austin and squeeze her tall body into a tight embrace and smush my lips against her smooth, delicious baby cheek, for just a moment before I let her go again.
