This past month I have been fully distracted by my trip to Naples, Italy. With all things Italian on my mind, it has been very hard to focus on Nome, Alaska. And even though I tried my best to continue my Alaskan novel while abroad, it was impossible for me to focus while being immersed in yet another culture. So I put it on hold and did a series of free-writes about Italy. I was not intending to share them, but it feels dishonest to keep them to myself. The food was amazing, it was sheer size of Pompeii was awe inspiring, and did I mention the food? I’ll gladly tell people about those highlights, but there was definitely a personal and gritty side of the trip too.
Here is the first unedited free-write:
Until this year I would have said I am scared of clowns. They are monsters looming behind a painted smiling façade. A thin veil separating us from their sharp teeth and evil intentions. That is a fear likely formed from childhood neurosis.
Or I could have told you about my fear of the dark, which is not a fear of the dark per se, but a fear of what is unknown. Who knows what lurks in dark corners waiting for an unsuspecting victim. Fear of walking through the woods on a starless night, jumping at nocturnal sounds. Sounds that if heard from within the walls of a cabin might seem quaint. A bit of wood and screened windows, like paint on a clown, but psychologically making all the difference.
Or I could say that the fear of the dark is a metaphor for the fear of any unknown, not only the physical.. As someone who prides themselves on research, learning, knowing, making informed decisions, to not know… to enter into the unknown… to lose that bit of control can be terrifying.
I am scared of clowns. I am scared of the ark. I do fear what is unknown. I’ve dealt with these fears for most of my life. They’re familiar to me, we know how to interact and still function. But a new fear has left me reeling.
Fear of…
I was sitting in the airplane yesterday, staring out over the wing, watching them test the flaps before take-off. I’ve always found take-offs exhilarating. I’d be waiting with a growing knot of anticipation for the rev of the engine, the rapid increase in speed. The anticipation would climax into a sense of euphoric relief with that moment of weightlessness when you’re first airborne.
I felt all of those things, but there was a new fear. It came to me while we taxied toward the runway. This would be my first flight since becoming a mother.
Toss that thought out the window, right? Who cares, so what. Flying and being a mother. No need for an audience to do it, I am fully capable of scoffing at myself.
It took me years of adjustment to incorporate mother into my sense of self. I’ve been living the life of mother for six years, with only once or twice a year 24 hour breaks.
I remember life before becoming mother. I remember exploring new places with trepidation tinged excitement. Like a perfect pairing of wine and chocolate, the one only enhances the other. I remember hurdling over hesitancy. I respected my fears, but knew they should not stop me. I remember being an adventurer, being spontaneous.
But being mother has added more caution. Being mother means predictable patterns, schedules, routines, and lists.
And in those moments before take-off I realized I was scared of reconciling being mother with all those things I used to be. I’m not sure when I stopped thinking of myself as an adventurer, or spontaneous, I just know they feel foreign when applied to the current me. It saddens me to realize that at some point I let a large part of me slip away. Why shouldn’t I be all the things I was as a young single woman AND be mother too? I can do it all. I can be it all.
That is what I hear the women’s magazines whisper, anyway.
But by getting on that airplane, by leaving my children behind, I am forced to face the idea that I am no longer the person I was before being mother. I must confront who I am now instead of relying on memories of who I was.
I expect of myself to go exploring. Boldly seizing opportunities while abroad.
But what I want is to simply dip my toe in.
I expect of myself to be up late, savoring the street life and vitality of the region.
But what I want is a good meal, and a cozy t.v show in bed.
I expect of myself to be who I have always been when traveling abroad.
But acknowledging who I am now scares me, because I think I’ll disappoint myself.
Northern Skies Publishing 